


We were two before our time

by wtfkovah



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Regency, Awkward Flirting, Families of Choice, First Time, Fluff, Historical Inaccuracy, Knotting, M/M, Mating Bites, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Protectiveness, Romance, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:20:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 43,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24308842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wtfkovah/pseuds/wtfkovah
Summary: Jihoon, an Omega, with little social standing, poor familial associations and hardly a tuppence to his name finds honest work as a teacher. His break with the norm results in a broken courtship, and the heartache and financial strain that follow send him south for the summer season, to teach Hansol, the youngest son of the Choi family.
Relationships: Choi Seungcheol | S.Coups/Lee Jihoon | Woozi
Comments: 64
Kudos: 467





	We were two before our time

**Author's Note:**

> REUPLOAD (with a few revisions) also (Links to contents of letters included in text, incase the letters are not clear. 
> 
> This is pretty much an ABO universe, but with more modesty. People were way more modest about shit back then, so if it seems like, hey, why's everyone raising their eyebrows over basic shit? It's because of that. Please note this is a reupload, and since I originally posted the fic, there has been some lovely fanart I would like to draw you attention to :,)  
> [Cute family](https://twitter.com/keunikka/status/1198979700296536064?s=09)  
> [Dapper Hoon](https://twitter.com/sallieeeeeeeeee/status/1199153184771584006?s=09)  
> [Hoon](https://twitter.com/dyoozi/status/1198861610980270081?s=09)  
> [Spicy Hoon](https://twitter.com/dyoozi/status/1199356911356796930?s=09)

“Mr Lee….are you certain this is a position you can _afford_ to accept?”

Jihoon's defenses rise, a bristling barricade of stubborn pride. “Whatever do you mean?”

Mr Yoon's levels him a pointed look, but his voice is gentle when he elaborates, “I do not doubt your enthusiasm for the role, and you are clearly well qualified to teach any class. But an Omega such as yourself, must consider the consequences a career in teaching will have on their reputation.”

Jihoon’s face flushes, even though it's foolish to feel called out by such an innocuous truth.

Under the circumstances, he really cannot argue with Jeonghan’s reasoning. It was, is—perhaps, always _will_ be—quite, quite unseemly for an Omega of his societal rank to take on paid work. And up until recently, he had been such a promising young Omega too, as respectable middle-class Omega’s tended to be. A bit rough around the edges, perhaps, and a tad too outspoken if one caught him in a particular mood. These minor faults, however, cannot be placed solely on Jihoon's shoulders, as he has grown up to be a rather pleasant and responsible Omega despite certain slightly _unfortunate_ branches of his family tree.

Now though—a job? Very unseemly. But with no living relatives of gentry, and having nothing but a sixpence to scratch with though he is one-and-twenty, Jihoon has no other choice but to seek work.

“My reputation has weathered far worse, I assure you. Since coming of age, I have learned a few unfortune truths: my parents, may they rest in peace, left me no inheritance of land or fortune to speak of, and what little they did leave in their estate, only lasted till my 5th birthday. The rest of my upbringing and education was entrusted upon my Aunt’s finances, and she has spent a great deal of her own fortune providing for me as if I were her own. I did not expect this kindness to continue indefinitely however, and since her husband’s untimely passing last winter, it stood to reason that I should seek financial independence as soon as I was able. I do not hope to live even a semblance of the life I have grown accustomed to, but my tastes have never been very extravagant, and I am certain I can make do on the salary you have offered.”

Jeonghan raises an eyebrow interestedly. “This _Aunt_ you speak of—she wouldn’t happen to be Mrs Hye-Jin Lee of Han house?”

“Yes, that’s right. You know of her?”

Jeonghan nods slowly. Judging by the hesitant, more strained smile to touch his expression a moment later, it is perhaps not a _favourable_ association.

“I know of her late husband. His uhm…. his various _proclivities_ were well known in town.”

Jihoon ducks his head sheepishly.

His _Uncle_ , god rest his soul, had never been much in the way of well-kept finances, so it came as no surprise that three days after his funeral, almost every man in town was banging on his Aunt’s door, demanding money long ago squandered.

Stifling a sigh of resignation, Jihoon affects a smile, “Ah, yes. It _is_ true, their estate currently owes many debts and I cannot help but feel responsible, burdening them with an extra mouth to feed for so many years. So you see, it is another reason why I really must find work. I _must_ repay them for their generosity.”

There's a spark of understanding in Jeonghan’s eyes when he looks at him, and Jihoon is immensely relieved when he finally nods and says, “As long as you are certain, you may begin tomorrow.”

* * *

Sealing his [letter](https://wtfkovah.tumblr.com/post/618754523035533312/regency-fic-letter-1-my-dearest-aunt-i-hope), Jihoon rushes out quickly to catch the morning messenger before he departs.

It’s raining when he steps out of the post office, and it continues to rain, hours later, when he reaches Sehun’s home and shakes his umbrella free of water. He places it carefully in the stand by the door and hangs up his outercoat, before making his way through the house towards Sehun’s study.

He can hear the cook humming a ditty in the kitchen as he passes, and he joins her merry tune as he opens the study door.

Sehun is sitting in his usual chair, head in his hands, correspondence lying in forgotten swathes across his desk. Jihoon tiptoes around until he can set the small bakery parcel in front of him.

“I hope you haven’t had dessert yet. I have brought your favourite.”

Sehun glances up then, face dour, then pushes the box away. “Will you just sit down. This is hardly the time for desserts and as you can plainly see, I am not in the mood.”

“Oh.” Jihoon chews his lower lip as he steps away. Taking a seat, he takes a moment to smooth the wrinkles in his waistcoat before asking, “Is something wrong?”

Sehun only gives him an incredulous look, all high eyebrows and thin-pressed mouth. It is not a patient expression, though he busies himself with tidying up his letters first, before sitting back, arms crossed.

“You have put me in an untenable position Jihoon. Very untenable.” He huffs. “Working as a school teacher, in town, how am I to _explain_ this to my family?”

Jihoon's hand curls into a frustrated fist atop his knee. 

Sehun often speaks of his family as if their approval is the only thing that matters, though he has yet to introduce Jihoon to them even once in their three year-long courtship. Jihoon had initially hoped the Beta was simply waiting for him to come of age, but with each passing season, he began to suspect it was because Sehun knew he would inevitably fall short of their lofty standards.

He is more than a little disappointed to know his suspicions are now _fact._ Nevertheless, he tries to inject his words with a lightness he doesn't feel.

“You can tell them that I have debts to repay, and I wish to see them through.”

Sehun sighs, with the slightly pissy and eternally put-upon tone of someone who figures he deserves sainthood for putting up with him. “I marvel at your ability to put such an honourable twist to your predicament, I really do, but it doesn’t excuse the fact that you have lowered your social status, _willingly_.”

Jihoon’s brow furrows as he considers those words. “Lowered my status? I have taken on work to aid my family; this _lowers_ me in your eyes?”

“In everyone’s eyes really.” Sehun protests, frowning. “Everyone who matters.”

He proceeds to lecture Jihoon about the proper social etiquette expected of an Omega in his prime years, and Jihoon has the sensation of listening to a living book. It’s manifestly a subject that Sehun is passionate about, and spoke of often, though Jihoon could not make heads or tails of it at times.

Today is no different, and he finds himself going cross-eyed as Sehun drones on.

“Perhaps you shouldn’t concern yourself with the ungracious opinions of others. I certainly won’t.” Jihoon finally manages, upset and not sure who to target: Sehun, his family, _himself_. But despite Sehun’s strong opinions on the matter, Jihoon refuses to feel shame for his chosen career. He has done nothing less than his duty as a man of moral integrity, and thus, as far as he is concerned, he has nothing to be ashamed of.

“That’s just the thing Jihoon, you don’t care.” Sehun says, his tone getting more heated, “You never seem to care about how you are perceived, of what’s _important_. It’s why we are so different, why we are so ill suited to one another.”

 _Ill suited—_ Jihoon’s mind echoes.

A heavy weight settles over his ribcage, a fist that pushes down until it is difficult to breathe.

“What are you saying?” He asks in hushed tones. It sounds more dispassionate than the plea of his heart: _please still want me._

Sehun winces, very slightly, and looks away. “I do not think it is wise for me to introduce to my family. I doubt at this moment, with your current financial outlook, they would ever accept our union.”

Jihoon's pride pricks, and it takes deliberate effort to quell a vicious retort.

With difficulty he keeps his voice low. 

“All because I have sought work, because I want to support my family after they sheltered me since childhood?”

He can see the battle on Sehun’s face as his pride wars with his common sense.

“Yes, but—that is not the _only_ reason. It would have been difficult to persuade them before, what with your less than honourable familial connec—”

“But my parents were honourable people. My aunt _is_ an honourable woman.” Jihoon interrupts, incredulous.

Sehun throws a hand out, scoffing, “Your aunt is no longer welcome in many of the great households, and your Uncle was an inveterate gambler. It is well known by those who matter that they both have squandered a hefty portion of their wealth, _and yours_ , on their whims.”

Jihoon opens his mouth, finds he has no answer at the ready, and closes it again, his arguments crumbling rapidly.

Sehun is often wrong about a lot of things, but there’s truth in that at least. Jihoon has never been privy to the details of the family accounts, but he knows of his Uncle’s gambling debts, he’s seen proofs of the financial strain they’ve had on their household. And though he doesn’t wish to think ill of his Aunt, he is certain his parents would not have left him penniless.

There _should_ have been a considerable sum left for him to inherit once he came of age, and yet there is nothing.

Jihoon takes a deep breath and lets it go. “You’ve never mentioned this before Sehun, why now?”

Sehun turns his head away to look out the window, “As I was saying, it would have been difficult to persuade my parents before, but now that you have no inheritance to speak of—”

“Money.” Jihoon says with more force in his voice than even he had anticipated. He narrows his eyes, “That’s what this boils down to? I don’t have enough _money_ to be with you.”

“It _is_ a factor that would deter my parents from ever accepting our union. You can’t deny that you have very little to offer me. No dowry to tempt me.”

“Tempt you?” Exasperation flares beneath the calm Jihoon is trying to maintain. “I didn’t realise I had to _tempt_ you into anything. After courting me for three years I thought you cared for me—I thought you….Don’t you love me?” He is pleading now, no thought for his dignity, desperate to be convinced.

Sehun’s lips thin, his eyebrows twitching into a frown as disappointment and frustration briefly war in his expression. The proud tilt of his head, however, the clenching of his jaw—they speak of certainty, of conviction

“It is not simply a question of love, Jihoon. It’s a question of compatibility. We are not compatible, and I will not burden my family name with such a union.”

Jihoon’s chest ices.

He feels like the Earth has tipped on its axis, as if gravity has shifted and left him drifting. A torrent of emotions batter him in its wake—anger, dismay, denial, a sharp stab of hurt at the rejection. He knows not what he looks like in this moment, but it must be truly pitying, because Sehun stands slowly, holding out a hand as if to soothe him.

“Jihoon—"

The chair legs scrape against the floor as Jihoon stands abruptly, takes several steps back, betrayal burning bitterly in the back of his throat.

He turns to leave, but the sound of Sehun’s voice has him pausing at the door.

“Jihoon, wait—”

Jihoon turns to face him, expression fixed in its usual studied indifference, thoughts ruthlessly locked away behind that shield that sometimes forms in his mind, when anything else is unbearable. “You have made your feelings very clear, Sehun. I do not wish to listen to what else you have to say.”

“I simple require my token back. You know, the locket?” Sehun’s expression turns sheepish, “Our courtship cannot end until you return it.”

Letting anger mask his hurt and humiliation, Jihoon unclasps the locket from around his neck and slaps it into Sehun’s outstretched hand. The man has clearly made up his mind, and there is no use in pretending otherwise.

* * *

Heartbroken and despondent, Jihoon throws himself into his teaching, hoping his efforts with his students can numb the pain of his current existence.

It works, for a while. Though he soon accepts he is only fooling himself into thinking this is any sort of life. He is merely _existing_ now—day after day, night after night, teaching, reading, writing; walking the streets of town until his feet threaten to leave him behind; lying in bed until the candle wick burns out; dabbling in many a hobby, yet committing himself to nothing.

He still gets the occasional invite from friends far afield, a special occasion here and there where his presence would be welcomed. Closer to home he is not quite so lucky. The rumour mill is rife in a small town such as this, and his broken courtship and tattered reputation have not escaped notice. In the span of a few months he has effectively become a social pariah amongst his old circle of friends—so much so they will pass him on the street without so much as a polite nod in his direction.

The only constants in his life are the letters from his aunt, demanding more money _‘and sooner if you please’_ and the bright-eyed and curious faces of his students every morning. One brings him tremendous joy, while the other has his stomach sinking like a heavy rock on the riverbed.

It’s a feeling that intensifies as the summer season draws closer, and the promise of stable pay drying up with it. For at the end of May, the school will close and Jihoon will be without work, and since he has exactly two shillings and six pence to his name—which won't even buy a wooden box to live in— he won’t be able to afford rent throughout the season, never mind the debts he must continue to pay off. He could— _at a stretch_ —manage to string enough money together by downgrading his accommodation and offering private lessons throughout the season, but it would be nice to _eat_ occasionally.

No. It’s imperative he finds new work, and soon.

* * *

“Ah, Jihoon—just the man I need to see.” Jeonghan calls out as Jihoon passes under the archway leading to the school gates.

His countenance does not appear worried or irritable, but there is a letter in his hand with a broken red seal and an express postage mark, and any matter that would warrant such _urgency_ often heralds bad news in Jihoon’s experience.

An irate donor perhaps, appalled that the school would allow an Omega to teach and threatening to withdraw their patronage. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“How can I help?” Jihoon smiles, readying himself for bad news as the headmaster approaches.

“I have a proposition for you.” Jeonghan grins, waving the letter at him. “Just this morning I received a letter from an old acquaintance of mine—a Mr Jeon. He is the steward of Daegu Park, near the southern lakes and….you are familiar with the Choi family, aren’t you?” He remarks, shooting Jihoon a glance.

Jihoon shakes his head.

He has no such familiarity—not in person, that is. He has _heard_ the name dropped in hushed conversations during his brief visits to Sehun’s home for structured engagements. But has never had the opportunity to meet the Duke or any of his family directly, and any event that would have had them in attendance Jihoon certainly would _not_ have been invited to. Even _before_ he put the middle finger up to what society expected of him. 

“Well then, I suppose I should get to the crux of the issue.” Jeonghan says, glancing briefly at the contents of the letter in his hand, “Mr Jeon oversees the running of the household and the tutelage of the youngest son, Hansol, but he’s found himself in quite a predicament this season as he’s been unable to find a suitable governess to overlook the boy’s studies. The previous governess had to resign following a bout of ill health, and he wrote to me hoping _I_ would consider the position. As it happens, I have already made arrangements that prevent me from accepting, but I wonder if _you_ may find the request an appealing venture?”

Automatically, Jihoon does the calculations: a respectable salary, living quarters within the grounds, possibly a small allowance for expenses—five shillings a week, nothing higher. Jihoon’s tastes aren’t extravagant, and he could live a comfortable, quiet life during the summer season. It would be a step down socially, to be sure, but the predictable income would be a welcome relief, and a position as a governess in a Duke’s household, if only for a few months, _could_ open many doors for future work.

It would also mean that he could put the heartbreak and gossip behind him. Again, if only for a few months.

“That sounds like _quite_ the appealing venture actually, I am very tempted to accept. Though, I suspect I lack the experience your Mr Jeon probably expects.”

Jeonghan snorts, not quite a laugh but close. “I honestly doubt Mr Jeon will object to the arrangement; his letter _was_ very imploring, and Hansol is apparently quite a little terror. Scared away his last nine governesses.”

The words are not as reassuring as Jeonghan obviously intends them to be, but Jihoon doesn't protest. He enjoys a challenge, and says as much.

“Well, I do enjoy a challenge. And I’m sure a single boy couldn’t pose that much trouble.”

Jeonghan claps his hands together, pleased. “Then would you object to me answering Mr Jeon on your behalf?”

“Not at all. Please do.”

* * *

Jeonghan writes the letter, including an excellent reference that expands on all Jihoon’s skills, _whilst_ skirting over the _less_ desirable details. Jihoon rather thinks he overdoes it, if he’s being honest—the purpose is to convince Mr Jeon he’d make an excellent governess and tutor for the young Marquis, not convince him that Jihoon is qualified to take over the entire household. 

Nevertheless, Mr Jeon writes back accepting the offer, and within the week Jihoon has packed his belongings and paid for passage on a carriage heading south.

It’s a tedious journey of four days length, and by the final day of travel he’s grown quite carriage sick, jostling back and forth along the uneven roads. But as the carriage enters the Southern hillsides, Jihoon’s aches and ailments vanish as his lungs sting clean and fresh with new air.

The sky above is wondrously clear, a perfect stretch of endless blue like a vast shield laid protectively over the sweet-scented valleys of heather and honeysuckle, and while they do pass a few moderately sized country homes and cottages, he struggles to imagine a stately home existing in such a tranquil place. He re-evaluates his opinion a moment later, when they crest a large hill and his destination finally comes into view.

Jihoon’s a small-town boy through and through, born and bred in a house no more than 4 bedrooms large, but wandering down the mile-long paved path to Daegu Park is like sauntering through the pages of a different story entirely. It’s a mirrored fantasy-world of sandstone and marble, Palladian columns that tower four stories high and palatial wings that stretch wide across the landscape. It must be at least three hundred rooms large—the largest house Jihoon has ever seen, and it’s difficult not to be swept up with the majesty of it.

Inside is every bit as grand if not more so; the entrance hall is lush with landscape tapestries in deep shades of green; candles line the staircase leading to the dim upper rooms of the house, and the chandelier above casts shimmering, golden shadows down on him, making the foyer seem like a forest in summer, dappled with sunlight.

“Welcome to Daegu Park, Mr Lee,” the butler says, with a little bow. “Mr Jeon has been informed of your arrival and will meet with you shortly. Meanwhile, please permit us to have your luggage taken up for you.” 

Jihoon is surprised a lowly tutor is treated to such a regal welcome, especially when the footmen who suddenly appear to whisk away his trunk are dressed more finely than himself. But nothing about the Butler’s manner suggests this treatment is out of the ordinary, so he just goes along with it, nodding respectfully and following as the Butler leads him down a long, dark wood-panelled corridor to the anteroom.

Left to his own whims as he waits for Mr Jeon’s appearance, he takes a moment to stroll around the periphery and gape at the many wonders on display.

He knows little of the Choi’s, except that they are a powerful and wealthy family with ties to the most prosperous institutes in the country, but you needn’t scour the Choi ancestral archives to know they are descendants from a pureblood Alpha line. It’s evident by simply observing the family portraits hanging along the walls; a line of Alpha Choi descendants dating back 600 years. Though true to size, each one of them is still so huge and imposing, in a way that has Jihoon feeling as small and fragile as a bird.

Especially the last portrait in line, one of the current Duke, _Seungcheol_.

The eyes seem to follow Jihoon whichever way he steps, and the tilt of his chin and flatness of his mouth reek of arrogant superiority.

Jihoon earnestly hopes never to meet the man in person—he seems genuinely terrifying.

“A fine portrait, is it not.”

Jihoon startles when a man suddenly appears at his side.

He’s a Beta; tall and slim, stern looking, with a head of dark brown hair and sharp eyes behind a pair of wire-rim spectacles. Mr Jeon, he presumes, though the man has yet to introduce himself, and does not wait for a response before adding, “His Grace is the youngest to inherit the estate, but by far the most deserving of the title.”

“Is he?” Jihoon smiles, “I must confess I am not familiar with his reputation.”

Mr Jeon looks personally offended that Jihoon isn’t prepared to wax lyrical about a man he’s never met before.

“I am surprised to hear it, though I suppose I shouldn’t be, considering your level in society is greatly _below_ his.” The dry incredulity on Mr Jeon’s face softens and vanishes, replaced by something soft and wistful as he stares up at the imposing portrait. “He is an exceedingly kind and generous man. And he has no match in the sword, pistol, wrestling ring, nor riding prowess either.”

Oh, Jihoon has no doubt that the Duke would excel in such activities. With such broad shoulders, strong arms and shapely thighs, he would have Jihoon flat on his back from his presence alone.

Jihoon’s throat flushes at the thought, and he tears his eyes away from the portrait to hold out his hand. “Mr Jeon, I presume?”

“Ah, yes, where are my manners.” Mr Jeon says, shaking his hand, “Welcome to Daegu Park Mr Lee. I hope your journey here was not too arduous?”

“Not at all.” Jihoon says, smiling. “I’ve never been this far south, and I found the views quite refreshing.”

Mr Jeon inclines his head, acknowledging his point, his mouth quirking at one corner.

Then the hint of smile fades, leaving a more sombre expression on his face. He takes a careful step back as his critical eyes skim up and down Jihoon’s frame. There is a sliver of indignation peeking from beneath his expression now. A wordless curiosity. When he frowns slightly, Jihoon turns towards him, knowing exactly in that moment what the man is thinking.

“Mr Yoon failed to disclose you were an Omega in his letter.”

Jihoon quashes a prickling rise of defensiveness. “Will that be a problem?”

He wants to hit himself for the question, because the answer is all too apparent. Of course, it would be a problem, _of course_. He should never have let Jeonghan conceal the fact in his letter, it was very misleading and Mr Jeon’s disapproval of such a tactic is quite clear in every stiff line of his body. Even if he sounds more accommodating when he responds:

“It’s hard to say. We’ve never had an unmated Omega in the household, I may have to arrange alternative living accommodations.”

Jihoon swallows thickly, and rushes to assure him. “I am very capable of supressing my scent. My old lodgings were mixed, and I never had any difficulties with the other lodgers.”

Wonwoo's mouth sets, hard and straight. “Perhaps. But have you ever had to supress your scent around an Alpha?”

Jihoon opens his mouth to reply, only to be interrupted by the sound of a loud scream from somewhere in the house.

Brow furrowing, Mr Jeon removes his pocket watch and glances at it, “Ah, Hansol will be awake from his afternoon nap. Come along, before he tires his nanny.” 

* * *

Hansol, as it turns out, is a curly brown-haired boy of no more than six years old. Though he somehow manages to carry himself with an air of self-importance more commonly seen in men ten times his age. He’s an alpha in miniature, Jihoon can tell from their first meeting; quick and confident in his approach, and yet quick to lose interest in the new face in the house.

As Wonwoo explains the rigid structure of his daily routine and the part Jihoon will play in it, he secludes himself in the corner, playing with his toy soldiers and smashing them together with such vehemence they break. He moves onto the next toy, and then the next—until Wonwoo sees fit to scold him.

His interest in Jihoon is renewed shortly thereafter, and he hovers impatiently next to Jihoon’s seat as he and Wonwoo converse, watching Jihoon with a gaze so unwavering it is starting to get a little disturbing. When Jihoon is _finally_ able to turn his attention to him, he approaches cautiously, hands held behind his back.

“Hold out your hand, I have a gift for you.” He grins.

“I wouldn’t,” Wonwoo suggests, with a knowing look over the rim of his teacup.

Jihoon holds out his hand despite the warning, and not a second later, Hansol drops a fat frog in his palm.

“Aww,” Jihoon coos, catching the frog carefully as he attempts to leap across his fingers. “Thank you Hansol. I love frogs.”

Hansol stares at him. His mouth is a flat line, and while his eyes are wide with surprise, there is also affront in them, as if he finds it insulting that the world is not precisely as he had believed it to be.

“Y-you’re not s-supposed to like it. You’re s-supposed to scream and throw it in the air and run away.” He says, his words alternating between a stutter and a rush.

Jihoon tsks and shakes his head. “But then I might hurt the poor frog, and he is innocent in all this.”

Hansol drops his gaze to the frog in Jihoon’s palm, pouting. “I—I didn’t think of that.”

Jihoon mirrors his expression, pouting a little too. “It’s all right pet.” Then holding the frog out, he suggests, “But how about you set him outside, carefully, so he may be safe with his friends.”

Hansol nods and cradling the frog carefully in both palms, he heads out the door.

Wonwoo watches him leave, mouth twisting in amusement, before levelling an apologetic look at Jihoon, “I should have warned you that he likes to pull pranks on unsuspecting visitors. It’s one of the reasons we have exhausted the list of suitable governesses in the county.”

Jihoon shrugs affably. “It’s quite alright. What small boy doesn’t enjoy pranks.”

Wonwoo’s eyebrows quirk up, and Jihoon experiences a quick petty thrill at having surprised him.

“I hope you will continue to feel that way Mr Lee,” He offers dryly, patting his mouth with a napkin as he stands. “Come, we still have much to discuss, Hansol has a very strict schedule he must adhere to, but I believe a tour of the house is in order.”

* * *

Wonwoo was not exaggerating about Hansol’s strict schedule.

Jihoon barely has time in the morning to finish braiding his hair when the breakfast bell chimes. He’s not even fully dressed yet, and it’s scarcely 7am, but when Jihoon reaches the breakfast room there is Hansol, with porridge all over his little face and little suit.

He has evidently not had much sleep, judging by the glazed look in his eyes and the grumpy way he is clutching his spoon. And to make matters worse, Wonwoo’s standing over him, with a very disappointed expression on his face.

“Hurry, hurry. You will have to change before you begin your lessons and we’re already behind schedule.”

“Mr Jeon.” Jihoon is surprised to hear himself sound so stern, but he doesn’t hesitate to motion Mr Jeon to the far side of the table, “May I speak with you for a moment.”

Mr Jeon frowns—frowns _harder_ to be precise—but steps aside readily enough, and Jihoon waits until Hansol is safely occupied before scolding him.

“Breakfast is an important meal for a child, Mr Jeon, where good habits are set. It should not be scheduled, and it certainly should _not_ be rushed. Hansol should be allowed to eat his breakfast in his own time.”

Mr Jeon glares at him, trying to convey his disapproval with his eyes. When Jihoon confidently holds his gaze, the expression quickly transforms into a scowl.

“You would do well to know your place, Mr Lee.” He says, lips pressed together contemptuously.

Jihoon meets his contempt with a single raised eyebrow. “His welfare _is_ my place. I am his governess now, and I am fit to make these observations.” He replies evenly.

Mr Jeon tenses, but Jihoon cuts him off before he can argue. “Oh, and another thing. I do not think such an early start to his day is necessary. He is a growing boy and should be allowed to sleep at least 9 hours each night. But since we are all awake already, we should all sit and eat. _Together_. It will help him form good habits.”

Wonwoo sighs, makes a strangled kind of noise, and looks to the heavens in exasperation. “It is not habitual for the help to dine with the family.”

Jihoon's eyebrow arches anew. “Would you really be so cruel Mr Jeon? To leave a little boy to eat alone?”

Wonwoo glares at him, unmoved. But his expression softens as he glances over at Hansol—the sole, tiny occupant of a monstrous breakfast table—and he sighs, “Inelegantly put Mr Lee, but your point is taken.”

They take their seats at the table, and Hansol grins happily at them through a mouthful of porridge.

“So, Hansol. What do you say to a little game after breakfast?” Jihoon smiles, reaching over to pat his napkin over Hansol’s chin.

“I—I thought I had to have lessons.” Hansol says, a little tremulously.

Jihoon spreads a generous wallop of marmalade over his toast before winking at him, “The game is part of the lesson.”

* * *

Hansol really is the sweetest boy when one gets to know him. His penchant for mischievousness is second to none, but what little boy doesn’t enjoy the hilarity of swapping the salt and sugar, catching spiders and dropping them down the maids dresses, and balancing a big sack of flour outside Wonwoo’s study so that he may become even paler than he already is.

It’s good, clean fun all round. Except that it usually involves a lot of cleaning afterwards.

Thankfully, Jihoon’s willingness to laugh at himself has exempted him from falling victim to any further pranks, and while he doesn’t want to discourage Hansol’s fun, he does hope to channel it into something more productive.

Afternoon tea is a sombre affair in the Duke’s house, as dull and tedious as the longest Sunday church service. There is much to enjoy, of course; cakes and biscuits, scones with cream and jam, and the finest tea the like of which Jihoon has never had—though there’s very little in the way of stimulating conversation to be had. Wonwoo is not accustomed to idle chatter apparently, so merely sips his tea in silence unless Hansol needs to be scolded for slouching or slurping.

No wonder the child is always pulling pranks, he’s _bored_ —Jihoon thinks, watching as Hansol liberates a slice of plum cake and stuffs it into his mouth. Between exaggerated chews, he is reprimanded a further three times by Wonwoo, and Jihoon could roll his eyes at the pointlessness of it all.

Yes, indeed, he is a little Marquess in waiting. But he is also a _child_ , denied all the freedoms of one.

“Perhaps after your lessons, we can venture down to the beach.” Jihoon suggests tentatively.

Hansol, still chewing the plum cake, levels him with the biggest beseeching puppy dog eyes.

“R-really?”

The question is so full of hope and genuine surprise that Jihoon feels his heart soften to this strange, lonely, child next to him.

“Yes,” He smiles, reaching over to lift his cup, “Having a beach so near is quite the novelty. We could build sandcastles and play in the rock pools. Take a picnic if you wanted.”

Hansol manages a small smile, already looking more cheerful. “And—you would build the sand-castles with me?”

Jihoon pauses, teacup halfway up to his mouth, steam hot against his chin. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

“I’m afraid Hansol is not accustomed to his governesses willing to spend more time with him than is strictly necessary.” Wonwoo says, vigorously stirring a spoonful of sugar into his tea.

Hansol colours a little with the chastisement and guiltily mumbles, “They always hide from me after my lessons.”

“Perhaps if you didn’t prank them, they wouldn’t be so quick to tire of you.” says Wonwoo in his usual brisk manner, which does not make him sound kindly to those who do not know him, but is read as such by those who do.

Setting his cup down, Jihoon reaches out to tuck an errant curl of hair behind Hansol’s ear, a thoughtless but heartfelt gesture. “Well, I will take you to the beach Hansol, and we will build sandcastles and go rock pooling and collect shells and do everything your heart desires.”

Hansol smiles impishly at him, and leans in to whisper, not quietly, “Does Mr Jeon have to come?”

Jihoon whispers back, also not quietly, “It would be good for him to see the sun, don’t you think?”

He does this partly because he didn’t give a tuppence if Wonwoo hears him or not, and partly because it’s tremendously amusing to see Wonwoo’s eyes narrow and his fingers clench around his teacup when Hansol guffaws with laughter.

* * *

Jihoon keeps his promise to Hansol and they go to the beach. He keeps his promise the following day and they play in the gardens until the sun sets. The venture into town on the third day, and Jihoon buys him a kite and enough taffy to make his teeth rot. By the end of the week, Hansol is so well ahead in his studies Jihoon cuts his lesson short and leans over to whisper, “What say you and I go roam the hillsides and fly your new kite?”

Hansol rushes out of the room happily to fetch it, and off they go, loping through the grassy knolls. The further they tread from Daegu Park, the lighter Jihoon feels and the brighter Hansol’s smile, until they are so far away they cannot hear the supper bell even if they wanted to. 

Then they spend the afternoon flying the kite along the river, next to a field with some very curious cows, and it’s and lovely and peaceful and at some point Hansol lies back on the grass and sticks his kite string between his knees, and announces it to be the best day of his life.

It’s childish exaggeration, Jihoon is certain, but the longer he thinks about it the more he comes to realise that it’s said with a child’s honesty. Hansol, despite his family’s wealth, despite what the future has in store for him, is a very lonely, companionless boy.

“You know,” Jihoon begins, petting his hair tenderly. “The cook has a young son about your age, Seungkwan I believe his name is. Would you not consider becoming his friend?”

Hansol's eyelids droop sheepishly, “I can’t be his friend. He runs away from me whenever I see him.”

The corners of Jihoon's mouth turn up in amused sympathy. “And why is that? Did you perhaps pull a prank on him?”

Hansol’s smile is a sharp flash of teeth. “Of course. No one is safe from my pranks. Except…except maybe Seungcheol.”

Jihoon can’t help but grow fond over the _fondness_ Hansol has for his elder sibling. The fondness is apparently well reciprocated, because given half a chance, Hansol will talk endlessly about his brother. Talking at length about how _marvellous_ he is and how _dearly_ he misses him and asking Jihoon to help write him letters, while he makes no mention of either of his parents.

Jihoon himself has yet to meet the Duke, who has been sequestered at the family home in the city, presumably for business. But he dearly hopes he is a kind man—or at least, more gentle and forgiving than his _portrait_ in the great hall would lead him to believe.

“Yes, I imagine he would be none too happy to have a bag of flour dumped over his head.”

Hansol waves him off easily, “Ohh, I don’t think he would mind. But he is wise to all my pranks. He was the one who taught me them, after all.”

Jihoon giggles, pleased to make the discovery. “Really? The Duke?”

Hansol nods, “I think he must have been even more alone than me when he was small. I have him and you to play with, but he had no one.” He frowns briefly, thoughts tugged away by the kitestrings of a memory. “But it will be his birthday soon, and he promised he will visit before then. And—and you can befriend him. I don’t think he has many friends. Not—not real friends.”

The corner of Jihoon’s mouth lifts in a warm smile. “I look forward to it.”

Hansol grins hugely, and nudges him. “And—and then you can mate with him! And we can all live together. Forever.”

Jihoon raises a polite eyebrow that betrays nothing of his shock, but Hansol goes on, quite merrily.

“I will have many new friends to play with when you have his pups. _All_ his pups. We will need to find a larger house with all the pups to be had.”

Jihoon’s mouth dries up, though he simply hums in answer, carefully noncommittal.

Hansol doesn’t seem to appreciate the lack of commitment on Jihoon’s part. He stares at him with an ever-narrowing gaze, then holds both hands up, fingers fanning wide. “Ten new friends, _ten_. That’s how many pups you must have together.”

It is, understandably, very difficult to remain quiet at the suggestion.

“Ten!” Jihoon gasps. “I am a small Omega. I could not possibly birth ten pups.”

Hansol humours him, though his eyes remain narrowed. “Alright— _five_. Five pups will be acceptable I suppose. But I _won’t_ settle for any less. I want many nephews and nieces.”

Jihoon shakes his head helplessly. Hansol says it so bluntly. So _simply_. As though it's already fact, like it’s something he’s read in a book somewhere.

“I’m not certain your brother would approve of…well…any of that, to be honest.”

Hansol just sits taller and juts his chin with unyielding defiance. “Of course, he will. He’s an Alpha. Alpha’s love knotting with Omega’s.” He retorts with complete confidence.

Jihoon feels himself flush.

He manages to get over being startled, at least enough to say, “You are _far_ too young to speak of such things. Where did you learn this?”

The tone of his words do not diminish Hansol’s confidence. If anything, it increases, and he grins proudly, marking his cheeks with dimples.

“Seungcheol told me _all_ about making pups. He said when he finds his Omega, he will knot him all day long. He’ll be so tired knotting, he won’t be able to leave his bed, and his Omega won’t be able to walk for a whole wee—”

Jihoon surges forward and slaps a hand over Hansol’s mouth. “That’s all good and well Hansol, but these really aren’t things we should say out loud. It’s improper.”

When he pulls his hand away, the edge of a mischievous grin barely curves Hansol’s downturned mouth.

“If you think _that’s_ improper, wait till you meet Seungcheol.”

* * *

It’s not often that Jihoon’s aunt writes to him, except to request more funds, so when Jihoon receives a letter at breakfast devoid of her usual demands, he is inordinately pleased with himself.

His excitement is short-lived however, when Jihoon realises _why_ she is writing to him, and by the second paragraph he has to excuse himself from the breakfast table to simmer in private.

It’s not uncommon for their correspondence to leave him heavy hearted, but this morning’s letter is especially dispiriting because:

It shouldn’t come as a surprise, really. Both his respectable income as heir to a small country estate and his reputation as a practical young man of sober habits makes Sehun one of the most eligible Beta’s in their small town. _Of course_ , he would be pursued eagerly. It’s expected.

But it’s scarcely been four months since they parted. A mere fraction of the time they spent courting one another, and for Sehun to move on so quickly leaves Jihoon feeling a little slighted.

He simmers over the news for the better part of the day, a little distracted during Hansol’s lessons, a little unfocused as he reads his book. When Hansol is whisked off for his afternoon nap, he retreats to the music room, hoping to drown his thoughts with a little practice instead.

Sitting at the shining, ten-foot Bösendorfer dominating a corner of the room, Jihoon flexes his fingers, lays them over the keys and begins to play. It’s been a while since he’s had a chance, and he’s rustier than he should be. But [Un Sospiro](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3JXMdpGpfBU) is a relatively easy tune for him; a good artistic stretch to warm up his creative mind while not overloading his technical skills too early in the session.

The door clicks open halfway through but Jihoon pays it no mind; it’s likely just a maid coming in to freshen the flowers or open the windows, and he suspects if he’s required, they will interrupt him. So he continues to play, losing track of where he is, of everything that’s happened today, subsumed in the blissful ritual of it all.

What focus he’s managed to conjure however, vanishes like a wisp of smoke when he lifts his head and finds a man standing on the other side of the piano, arms clutched behind his back as he observes Jihoon play.

He can’t be much older than Jihoon himself, though he’s every inch the gentleman; dressed in an exquisitely tailored maroon tailcoat, a dark double-breasted waistcoat, and a cravat a of silken cream tied in an artistic flourish around his neck. Instantly, Jihoon knows he’s an Alpha—not just because his shoulders are broad as the day is long, but because he emits a kind of regal decorum possessed only by a type of person that was born within, and raised to rule, an empire.

Jihoon is startled enough by his sudden appearance that he loses his place, holding an awkward dominant seventh chord without meaning to.

“Please, don’t stop on my account.” The Alpha grins ruefully.

Jihoon hastily remembers where he is, what he's playing, and resolves to the next chord—albeit with less focus than he customarily has. 

He's only halfway through the chorus but he cadences mechanically and segues into some mindless noodling so he can study the Alpha in a series of flickering glances.

 _Handsome_ —he determines from the first few stolen glances, noting the man’s dark hair and full lips and strong, expansive shoulders. _Very handsome_ —he amends a moment later, following the line of his nose, the sharp cut of his jaw and the enticing smoulder of his eyes.

The distraction of having someone watch him play must come across somehow, because the Alpha shoots him an evaluating look from under long eyelashes and steps around the piano to stand behind him, out of sight.

It's a little less distracting. But not by much. 

“You must have been classically trained. I’ve never heard such skilful mastery of this piano.” The Alpha observes. 

Jihoon smiles, though he dismisses the compliment almost immediately. He doesn't even know what _key_ he's playing in anymore, but he resolves to keep going, hoping he's making _some_ kind of musical sense.

When the Alpha finally slides into the empty space on the bench beside him, hooking one leg over the wooden slat, Jihoon cadences softly and pauses, letting silence take over the room.

He knows his cheeks are stained crimson, he can _feel_ the heat of it slicing through him, and he knows he must look foolish just sitting there awkwardly, so he turns around in embarrassment, preparing to make a run for it. But then the man chuckles and—

There is nothing Jihoon can do but turn towards the sound.

It’s like the richest caramel; raspy and honeyed, quietly amused, hinting at a growled darkness.

“You play very beautifully.” The Alpha says, dark eyes peering down into his own with fierce intensity. 

Jihoon’s so caught up in staring back he forgets to speak, forgets to thank him, forgets to introduce himself. He flushes and ducks his head, ashamed that he’s forgotten this one, most basic civility, but just as he begins to search his mind for something to say—any pleasantry will do at this point, surely—the door bursts open and Hansol comes bouncing in.

“You’re here!” He cries out, and the man opens his arms in time to steady Hansol as he climbs onto his lap. “I missed you dearly.”

“And I you.” The man replies, cradling Hansol close, pressing kisses to his face, sloppy with affection.

There’s a well of emotion pooling in Jihoon’s throat at the display, the same sickly-sweet joy he gets from seeing a basketful of kittens, or a new-born lamb take its first steps, or as it is now, a small puppy greeting a much _larger_ puppy.

And there is no doubt about it, this man—as tall and as broad and as striking as he is—appears to be one giant, friendly puppy.

It occurs to Jihoon all at once that this— _this_ is the Duke.

 _This_ man is Seungcheol.

Hansol proves his suspicions correct a moment later, waving at Jihoon and announcing, “Seungcheol, this is Jihoon—Jihoon, my brother, Seungcheol.”

Seungcheol extends his hand, apparently not at all bothered by the informality of the introduction, and Jihoon shakes it.

“Ah, _Jihoon_ ,” Seungcheol echoes, bemused, holding Jihoon’s hand for a long moment before releasing it. “The _famed_ governess; I have heard much about you.”

Jihoon swallows thickly, “You—you have?”

Seungcheol’s answering smile makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. There’s no immediate family resemblance with Hansol, until Seungcheol tilts his chin and the sunlight catches his eyes with a peculiar _slyness_ , and Jihoon is forced to retract his previous thought.

“Indeed. Wonwoo was very effusive of his blessing in his most recent letter. He tells me Hansol has undergone quite the transformation under your tutelage, and I dare say I am impressed you have lasted this long. Usually his tutors last a _week_ , if even that, so I knew you had to be very special to win his favour. Now I can see I was right.”

Jihoon ducks his head, not because he is blushing, because that would be _ridiculous_.

The rush of pride that swells in his chest surprises him. Of course, he'd known gaining the Duke's approval was a key part of his role, but he hadn't anticipated the genuine joy securing it brings him.

"Thank you, your Grace," he murmurs, mirroring the glowing expression on Seungcheol's face.

There’s scarcely time to string a complete sentence together, to speak up, before Hansol is huffing impatiently, tugging on the Duke’s sleeve.

“Seungcheol, listen! Don’t you think Jihoon’s pretty? He’s pretty, right? Now that you have a pretty Omega, can you mate with him please?”

“Hansol no!” Jihoon gasps, at the same time Seungcheol says, “Uhm.”

Hansol nods up at his brother, then turns to glower at Jihoon, rebellious and furious. “You promised Jihoon, you promised you would have five of his pups. And now he is here, you must keep your promise. We shook on it!”

Jihoon's eyes widen, and his voice is more thunderous than necessary when he says, “I made no such promise!”

Seungcheol scratches his chin and says nothing, at least not in words. The arch of his eyebrows speaks _volumes_.

Hansol stamps his feet on the ground, then gathering his wits and straightening his spine, he announces decisively, “I’m going to leave now, and when I come back, I expect there to be five pups for me to play with,” before stomping out of the room.

The door slams shut behind him, leaving them alone with nothing but an overwhelming sense of awkwardness.

Seungcheol sits absolutely still, as if he's been mowed over by surprise, much the way Jihoon suspects he himself looks. It’s possibly the worst introduction in the history of introductions, but before Jihoon can even _begin_ to address the accusations lingering in the air, Seungcheol turns to face him, with a smile full of teeth and heat and says:

“We should probably get started on these promises you’ve made. He _could_ return at any moment.”

Jihoon almost laughs, before he catches himself; he isn’t sure if he’s supposed to. For all Hansol's assurances that his brother is quite approachable—for all that Jihoon _believes them_ —he can't simply ignore the knowledge that Seungcheol is a Duke. That he practically owns half the country.

“Y-your Grace,” He begins shakily, flustered.

“Call me Seungcheol,” The Duke is quick to correct, all earnestness and good humour.

Jihoon’s mouth pulls into a reluctant smile. First names? No titles? It’s a _little_ unorthodox, but there is something oddly charming about Seungcheol and his unorthodox approach.

“Alright then, _Seungcheol_ ,” Jihoon tries again, treading cautiously, “please accept my apology."

That surprises a laugh out of Seungcheol.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” He says, with a flick of his hand. “I know full well how tenacious my brother can be, you have nothing to apologise for.”

“Then please allow me to explain myself.” Jihoon pleads, heart bobbing in his chest. Despite the Alpha’s sincere, calm demeanour, he can't seem to stop himself from continuing, a frantic and unnecessary flow of explanation. “You must know I made no such promises. I would not even begin to imagine I have the right to agree to such assertions, I simply did not correct Hansol when it came up in conversation. And I _should_ have, I accept that, only that his mood had been so dour in your absence, and when he spoke of such things he seemed to brighten and I did not have the heart to tell him it would never be true. That it would never happen.”

Seungcheol looks contemplative for a moment. Then he snickers, a quiet and charming sound, and shakes his head. “Never is a _strong_ word Jihoon. Does the idea of having my pups offend you so much that you would swear against it for all eternity?”

Jihoon’s pulse jumps into his throat like a flintlock. “W-what?”

Seungcheol gives him an amused look beneath his lashes, an action likely more flirtatious than he had intended. “I mean, _I’m_ not offended. And I have to agree with my brother on one thing—you are very pretty.” He says, casually, like such a statement isn't perfectly designed to squeeze the air from Jihoon's lungs. 

Before he can fully recover, there’s a quiet knock on the door and the Butler enters, bowing politely.

“Your Grace—tea has been set for you in the drawing room.” He says, lively despite his advancing years.

“Ah, excellent.” Seungcheol says, swinging his legs over the bench and standing up. Stopping half-way across the room, he turns to face Jihoon and jerks his chin, “Shall we?” When Jihoon hesitates where he stands, he quirks an eyebrow and says, “You are welcome to continue telling me all about how _badly_ you don’t want my pups.”

“I didn’t mean it like that! I meant no offence!” Jihoon blurts, blushing and flustered. 

“Relax,” Seungcheol chides, gentle tone making it obvious he recognizes Jihoon’s defensive displeasure. “I was just teasing. Come, let’s have some tea.”

Seungcheol's hand is big and warm and weighty as it settles on his back, and Jihoon has to swallow before he can say, “O-okay.”

* * *

Tea with Seungcheol is, to put it mildly, _mortifying_.

Jihoon can’t help but fidget anxiously with his braid as they settle in the drawing room; he can still feel the ghost of Seungcheol's touch on his back, even with the Alpha sitting a good distance away, pleasant and cheerful, sipping tea and asking Jihoon about his brother’s progress.

Jihoon wishes he could imitate his nature, but it’s very hard to sit and sip your tea calmly in such esteemed company, especially when Hansol persists in expounding on Jihoon’s qualities as an Omega and why Seungcheol should mate with him _now, now I demand it. Make pups now. Why are you just sitting there staring at each other, make some pups!_

Jihoon is tempted to pinch Hansol to silence him, but Seungcheol, thankfully, pulls out the Alpha card and quells him with a single _look_.

It’s so effective Hansol shuts up instantly, then proceeds to sulk quietly in his seat until he is ushered forward to apologise and have some cake. It’s the most astounding display of Alpha dominance Jihoon has ever witnessed. More so that it was completely void of the aggression Alpha’s are infamous for. But Seungcheol clearly exhibits his aggression in other ways, and Jihoon has to supress a smile as he watches Seungcheol wolf down half the cake and a dozen of the finger sandwiches in the time it takes Jihoon to nibble on a single biscuit.

He certainly has an Alpha’s appetite—and from the distinctive outline of the cock in his tightly drawn breeches, he has an Alpha’s _gir_ —

Jihoon has to quickly avert his gaze as his brain conjures up _that_ unhelpful image.

It’s clear he’s going to have to avoid any further interactions with the man of he is to leave Daegu Park with his dignity in tact.

* * *

As best as Jihoon tries to avoid Seungcheol in the following days, going so far as to have his meals earlier than he is hungry for them and navigating the house through the back corridors, he simply cannot stay _clear_ of the man.

He happens across him at the most inconvenient moments—in the gardens as he takes his morning walk, in the drawing room when he searches for a quiet place to read, even in the kitchens when he attempts to sneak a late-night snack. It’s almost as if the Universe itself deliberately places Seungcheol in Jihoon’s path to catch him unawares and humiliate him.

A ridiculous notion, surely, but what else is there to explain how he keeps running into the same man, time and time again, in a house 300 rooms large?

Jihoon is adamant some curse must have befallen him, especially after their deathly awkward _‘So you enjoy midnight sandwiches too?’_ moment in the kitchen is quickly followed by the most embarrassing folly of his life.

It happens shortly after lunch on a blisteringly hot day, when Jihoon retreats to the conservatory to read and stumbles across Seungcheol practicing his fencing….. _shirtless_.

“O-oh my.” Jihoon stammers, as he comes across the scene.

There really is no reason whatsoever for a body to have those sorts of muscles, and therefore not a fault of Jihoon’s at all that he should drop his book in shock, when Michelangelo himself would have stopped in the midst of painting the Sistine Chapel to gape agog at Seungcheol’s well defined chest.

“Jihoon.” Seungcheol pauses in his practice to rake his fingers through his hair. “You wouldn’t happen to be interested in joining me, would you? My practice partner succumbed to the heat early on, and I would very much like to continue.”

Jihoon considers answering with, And _I would very much like you to put your shirt back on, but we can’t always have what we want—_ except that would be rude and most certainly untrue.

“I’m sorry,” He says, after a beat too long to be polite. “I’m—I’m not familiar with the sport.”

Keen eyes hold Jihoon trapped, like a fox in a snare. Without looking away, Seungcheol bends over to collect Jihoon’s discarded book, setting it off to the side. “Are you well Jihoon? You appear to be quite flushed.”

“Oh, yes. I’m all right,” Jihoon stammers, staring resolutely at his shoes.

The courteous thing to do would be to look Seungcheol in the face while speaking to him.

Jihoon cares not one whit for the courteous thing. He can’t look Seungcheol in the eye when he’s posturing, _shirtless_.

He tries to distract himself, and hopefully Seungcheol, from the slight blush of embarrassment heating up his cheeks by backing out of the room as quickly as his feet will allow him. But he lacks grace, and the misfortune of not having eyes on the back of his head, so he doesn’t see the low table he bumps into.

Thankfully Seungcheol’s reflexes are lightning quick; he catches the vase that topples off before it falls, then just as quickly, catches Jihoon before he trips over too.

“It really is stifling in here, huh? Shall we step outside for some fresh air?” Seungcheol asks, placing a steadying hand low on Jihoon’s back.

Jihoon startles at the touch, but before he can make up his mind, Seungcheol is already guiding them through the trio of double-doors out into the gardens.

There isn’t much in the way of a breeze out here, but the dappled shade of the cherry blossom trees overhead is a pleasant contrast to the stifling heat indoors.

Now if only Seungcheol would put his shirt back on.

That would certainly help Jihoon cool down.

“That’s better yes?” Seungcheol says, resting a hand against the tree bark. “It really is quite warm today. I am almost tempted to head down to lake for a swim. Would you care to join me?”

Jihoon’s doesn’t know how to begin answering that, possibly because he didn’t even hear the question. He’s too busy trying to find a safe place to look, somewhere in Seungcheol’s general direction but not _at_ the man directly. It’s hopeless though, Seungcheol’s impressive build demands attention, and Jihoon finds his gaze drawn to the sight of his muscled chest, his corded arms, his broad, _broad_ shoulders.

“I don’t—” He begins, then cuts himself off abruptly as Wonwoo makes an appearance on the balcony steps.

He’s frowning, as per usual, and Jihoon wonders if it hurts him to frown that much sometimes, if it actually stretches his facial muscles in unpleasant ways. If Wonwoo suffers from it, he never lets on.

“Apologies for the interruption your grace,” Wonwoo begins, bowing politely, though he doesn’t stop frowning. “But I must advice you against your actions. Three of the parlour maids have already fainted, and I fear the rest of the household will join them soon if you don’t—”

Seungcheol holds up an imperious hand to silence Wonwoo’s explanation. “I can’t very well help it if people are fainting. I have no control over the weather.”

“They are not fainting because of the heat your Grace, they are fainting because of your current state of _undress_.” Wonwoo answers with all his usual faint wryness.

So comical is the look on Seungcheol’s face, Jihoon nearly laughs. But he manages to school his expression into careful disinterest as Wonwoo produces a clean shirt and cravat from behind his back and holds them out.

“Oh, fine!” Seungcheol huffs, grabbing the shirt and yanking it over his head. Though he does not sound irate, not truly, for Jihoon is coming to know very well the different ways Seungcheol can sound, and this is drollness mixed in with a little long-suffering. He probably sounds exactly like this every time he talks to Wonwoo.

Seungcheol finishes fussing with his cravat and breathes a low sigh, resignation in the sound. “I hope I have not offended you, at least.”

Jihoon laughs, and thankfully the sound is only a _little_ bit strained. 

“Oh, no, I’m not offended.” _Aroused perhaps. A little faint and delirious, but, “_ Not offended at all.”

This earns him a wide, pleased smile. “Good. I’m not cut out to wear all these layers for proprieties sake. My body always runs a little warmer than everyone else’s, and if I could get away with it, I would wear nothing at _all_.”

Jihoon almost falls down the grassy embankment just thinking about it. Honestly, he will need more mastery of his body than this if he is to reside in Daegu Park the summer long.

* * *

It is remarkably easy to grow fond of Seungcheol. His zeal and his wit are infectious, and his boisterous antics should not be appealing to one such as he, but Jihoon nonetheless finds himself charmed by the Alpha. As expected of any heir with an impressive title and birth right, Seungcheol is still in many ways a large, spoiled child—yet Jihoon can also see a firmness of character, an uprightness he's rarely witnessed in men.

These qualities are never more apparent than when he interacts with his brother, and Jihoon often catches himself watching them play together, thinking— _he’d make such a great father._

It happens again one afternoon, when he passes by Hansol’s bedroom on his way to return books to the library, and hears Seungcheol’s voice drift out into the hall as he reads from a story book.

"Cheol, is that why the statue in the garden is called a sundial? Because it can tell the time from where the sun is in the sky?” Hansol asks curiously. 

"Exactly." Seungcheol chuckles. "See, you’re so much cleverer than I was at your age. I just used to think it was a very uncomfortable bench."

It’s a private moment, and Jihoon has no business going to look, but his feet start moving in that direction anyway. Affection and something more ferocious flare together in his chest when he hovers by the open door and peeks inside. Seungcheol is stretched out on Hansol's bed with Hansol nestled in the crook of his arm, a book open between them. Seungcheol presses a kiss to the top of Hansol's head whenever he turns a page, and Hansol interrupts every other sentence with a new question, which Seungcheol answers patiently.

Jihoon takes a moment to indulge in the view, then backs away quietly, carrying his books down to the library.

It’s quickly becoming his favourite room in the house; anywhere Jihoon can sit and read to his heart's content will always hold great value to him. And it’s not like Jihoon hasn’t had access to plentiful books before, but Daegu Park’s library is truly impressive; filled with books from all over the world, from the literary masterpieces of George Byron and Edgar Allan Poe, to the unique Philosophical works of Spinoza, Locke and—

“That is an old favourite of mine.” says a voice in Jihoon’s ear.

Jihoon startles, loses his stepping in his haste to turn.

He would have fallen off the ladder completely if strong hands hadn’t grasped his waist to steady him. There’s a moment of weightlessness as he’s helped down to his feet, then Jihoon pivots, blushing as he comes face to chest with Seungcheol.

“S-sorry,” says Jihoon.

“The fault was mine,” says Seungcheol, grinning. “In my eagerness to capture your attention, I approached too quickly, and from an inopportune angle.”

“It’s all right,” says Jihoon, straightening his clothes.

He expects Seungcheol to politely excuse himself and continue perusing the shelves: the stack of books in Jihoon’s hands is growing heavy, and no one has genuinely been eager to capture Jihoon’s attention in his life, other than Hansol.

But there is ease in Seungcheol's posture, and purpose in his eyes, and a second later he unburdens Jihoon of his load in his hands.

“Do you enjoy riding?” He asks, setting the books down on a small side table.

Jihoon tries not to make a pained face, but it must slip through anyway, because Seungcheol laughs at him.

“It’s fine, I can teach you.”

* * *

Jihoon knows how to ride, more or less, on a technical level.

His aunt had paid for a second-rate instructor when he was a child, competent enough but not the best. And he had a handful of lessons from Sehun during their courtship later, but their practice sessions never failed to end in laughter on Sehun part and a mounting sense of desperation on his. They both agreed in the end that Jihoon made for a better conversational partner than a riding partner, and he was happy enough to sit out the hunts during the house parties Sehun used to throw, _most_ of the time. Other times he couldn’t help but feel that his lack of such a skill made him inadequate in some way, and often wished to try again. That is, if he could find someone _patient_ enough to instruct him.

He doubts Seungcheol is in possession of such patience, being an accomplished rider as he is, but the Alpha seems determined to prove him wrong in every way imaginable. He doesn’t call for the stable hand to assist them, preferring to saddle up the horse himself.

“This is Clip-Clop. He is my favourite.” He says, leading the horse out of its pen. 

“Clip Clop?” Jihoon giggles, much amused. “Was Hansol the one to name him?”

Seungcheol regards him with a supremely petulant expression, lower lip jutting out. “No, I named him.”

“ _Oh_.” Jihoon breathes, amusement increasing tenfold. Perhaps with even a smidgen of fondness creeping in too. Just a smidgen. "Well, he's a very beautiful horse." He adds, fidgeting with his riding gloves.

Indeed, "beautiful" doesn't even begin to do the horse justice. He is magnificent—a black stallion standing eighteen hands with the demeanour of an ancient warhorse. He is proud, independent, and strong and—

Clip-Clop though?

 _Honestly_?

Jihoon watches intently as Seungcheol talks him through each step of preparing the steed, watching him groom and brush and fasten the saddle with tender, logical precision. Known for their aggressive tendencies and impulsive nature, it’s truly hypnotizing to watch an Alpha demonstrate such…such _patience_.

“May I?” Seungcheol asks, holding out his hand once everything is in place.

Jihoon accepts at once, blushing as Seungcheol hoists him up.

The ground seems a hell of a long way down from up here, and the saddle is too large for a petite Omega such as himself, so Jihoon waits to be thrown off the second Seungcheol hands him the reigns, waits for the horse to gallop away across the fields with him as hostage, bobbing like a badly tethered balloon, screaming at the top of his lungs. But the steed remains blessedly calm, trotting serenely on the spot. Good thing too, as any sense of calm Jihoon hopes to possess flees his body not a second later, when Seungcheol mounts the horse as well.

Jihoon chokes a startled laugh as Seungcheol settles in the saddle, directly _behind_ him.

“Would you prefer your own horse?” Seungcheol drawls.

There's genuine teasing in the tone. A lightness that says Seungcheol is well aware of the impropriety of his actions, but also doesn’t _care_.

“No, I—” Jihoon swallows convulsively, “It’s alright.”

“Very well then,” Seungcheol says, curling a hand around Jihoon’s hip, sliding an arm over his stomach as he takes hold of the reins.

If Jihoon proceeds to make embarrassing noises throughout the ride, well then, Seungcheol should not possess such a well-endowed cock. _No man needs such a massive cock_ —Jihoon thinks, as he feels the thick, impressive length rub against the seam of his breeches with each gallop— _one could get by in life quite sufficiently with a cock half as large._

“I love this view of the estate, don’t you?” Seungcheol says, chatting away like his massive dick isn’t poking Jihoon in the back.

“Yes, it’s quite magnificent.” Jihoon murmurs. He attempts to discreetly scoot further up the saddle, only for the galloping motion of the horse to drag right back between Seungcheol’s strong thighs again.

 _God, are all Alpha’s this…this big?_ Jihoon wonders.

Seungcheol’s height and width had to give a tumble with him the feeling of the whole _world_ pressing you flat into the bed and having its way with you, and for one traitorous moment, Jihoon lets his mind wander down that path, lets himself imagine things he shouldn’t.

_Lying beneath Seungcheol, completely naked while Seungcheol hovers over him. Seungcheol’s wonderfully large, perfectly kept hands grasping Jihoon's hips, holding him open with his thumbs as he ruts inside and takes his—_

“Flower?”

Jihoon startles at the sound of Seungcheol’s voice, low and intimate in his ear. “W-what?”

Seungcheol, breath still coasting Jihoon’s ear, whispers, “I _think_ it’s a bluebell, but I’m not sure. It’s really beautiful though, don’t you think?”

Perplexed, Jihoon turns his head and finds Seungcheol is actually holding a small blue and white flower in his hand, twirling the stem between his fingers. It’s not a Bluebell though, but a Columbine, a fact Jihoon doesn’t manage to share as Seungcheol is already twisting off the stem and tucking it gently behind his ear.

“O-oh.” Jihoon says, finding his voice again slowly. “Thank you.”

There's so much eloquence in the small gesture, compounded a moment later when Seungcheol licks his lips and speaks in an impossibly quiet voice. “It suits you. Really brings out the blue in your eyes.”

Jihoon smiles and quickly looks forward again. It would be so easy to pretend the gesture is something completely other than what it is, if he wants to be monumentally stupid and unprofessional, which he absolutely doesn't.

They manage a reasonably successful jaunt around the estate that consists mostly of Jihoon holding his saddle horn in a death grip while Seungcheol leads the horse. Once they reach the farthest edge of the pasture, away from prying eyes, Seungcheol relinquishes the reigns to Jihoon’s hand, apparently confident he will manage.

Jihoon doesn’t share in his confidence however, and is proven right when an experimental tug on the reigns has Clip-Clop dancing backwards wildly in response.

“Seungcheol!” Jihoon cries out, panicking.

“Easy, boy— _easy_.” Seungcheol says, swiftly bringing the horse back under control with nothing more than the pressure of his thighs and a gentle word.

Jihoon breathes a heavy sigh of relief, slumping back against Seungcheol’s chest as Clip Clop returns to a nice, casual trot.

“That’s it, there we go. Good boy.” Seungcheol chuckles, warm breathing tickling Jihoon’s ear. “You’re just a little shy under new hands, but I knew you’d soon warm up beautifully. You just want a nice, firm touch and a pair of strong hands to guide you.”

Jihoon feels his face heat, because he honestly can’t tell if Seungcheol is speaking to him or the horse.

Either would be fitting really, though one would certainly be most inappropriate.

* * *

When they return to the stables, pink-faced and cold, Jihoon feels like he has gained more confidence in that one lesson that he has his entire life.

He means to thank Seungcheol for his patience, for his time—but before he can summon the words, Seungcheol is smiling and thanking _him_ instead. Like Jihoon was terrific company or something, like he hadn’t just spent the last hour _embarrassing_ himself on horse.

They proceed to brush the horse and put the tack away, chatting about nothing in particular, until they hear the chime of the first dinner bell ring in the distance.

It's as they begin their walk back to the house that Seungcheol says, “I would very much like it if you took your meals with me Jihoon.”

His gaze remains turned directly ahead, but his arm brushes against Jihoon's with every step. Jihoon is desperately aware of every fleeting touch, attentive as always to the Alpha's proximity, to the size and gravity of him, to the weight of his focus even though he is looking up the path. Seungcheol's voice is a discreet rumble when he explains, “Hansol tells me you often sit with him and I must admit, I feel slighted by your absence at my table. I hope you don’t find my company so disagreeable.” And though he sounds amused, his eyebrows are raised in what appears to be an _honest_ curiosity. 

“No, not at all.” Jihoon says, fighting the urge to hunch his shoulders. “I find your company very agreeable. I merely felt the need to respect the differences in our stations.”

They're nearing the house now—Jihoon can see the maids fluttering about through the ground floor windows as they light the candles—but Seungcheol stops and turns to face him, cocking his head to one side.

“What differences do you speak of?”

Jihoon opens his mouth to reply, but Seungcheol cuts him off by placing a hand on his shoulder and his mouth dries up like a winter riverbank. Even through three layers of clothing, he is distressed to learn, he can still feel the Alpha’s heat.

“I am an educated and civil man Jihoon, as are you. Should we not be allowed to enjoy each other’s company?” Seungcheol says, squeezing his arm gently.

Jihoon stares, once again floored by Seungcheol candour and unsure how to respond.

 _Seungcheol wants his company_ —the realization is so unexpected and welcome that Jihoon's hands tremble for a moment before he clasps them behind his back.

“Yes. I…I suppose you are right.”

Seungcheol’s mouth curves up in triumph. “Then, you will join me?” He asks, hand sliding down to rest on the crook of his elbow.

Jihoon ducks his head, embarrassed for some reason he cannot put a name to, and then glances up again. He does not mean for his gaze to fix onto Seungcheol’s mouth, but Seungcheol is still smiling at him, eyes bright and soft, and Jihoon cannot find the strength to look elsewhere.

“I would be honoured.”

* * *

Jihoon dines sumptuously that night, upstairs in the family dining room with Seungcheol and Hansol.

The cooks prepare for their pleasure Davenport fowls in tarragon sauce and Chateaubriand steak: Soup a la Reine and broiled mushrooms, and Apricot Rhenish cream with baskets of freshly baked pastry. It’s delicious, one of the finest meals Jihoon’s ever had, though he remains careful of his table manners, careful of his posture, careful to appear at ease. By the time dessert is brought, he really _is_ at ease. He’s never dined with a Duke before, but it’s easy to feel welcomed at the Choi’s dinner table. To appreciate the warmth and protectiveness they share, to let himself be absorbed into their fond teasing and playful antics.

Seungcheol is very attentive through-out, asking his opinion on matters and actually _listening_ to his responses, instead of affecting an air of interest as anyone else would have.

 _A true gentleman_ —Jihoon thinks warmly, and it is somewhere in between Seungcheol’s very strong opinions about the _Employment laws_ and _Equal opportunities for Omega’s_ that Jihoon has the curious thought that they may prove to become _friends_.

It is not what he could have ever imagined before, for Jihoon has precious few friends and none of them would ever rank as highly, but suddenly he finds that he _can_ imagine it, very much.

* * *

“Seungcheol said he would take me fishing, down by the lake.” Hansol announces one afternoon, as their lesson draws to a close.

Tidying his teaching supplies away, Jihoon pats him on the head, “Off you go then. Behave yourself, and remember to stay clear of the beehive we found under the Beech tree. The bees won’t bother you as long as you don’t bother them.”

Hansol’s forehead creases as he stares up at him, then he announces with his usually confidence, “You’re coming too.”

“Ah—well,” Jihoon smiles indulgently, “Thank you Hansol, but I’m sure Seungcheol intends for you to spend some quality, brotherly time together.”

“Nice try Jihoon, you’re coming.” Comes a much gruffer voice from the doorway.

Jihoon blushes guiltily even before he lifts his head and meets Seungcheol’s eyes.

Just as he open his mouth to voice his argument, Hansol takes his hand and turns a beseeching look on him. “Please Jihoon—come with us.” Then not a fraction of a second later, his expression twists into something a little more devious, “Seungcheol will carry you there if he has to.”

Seungcheol steps into the room, nodding slowly, a matching slyness in his eyes, “He’s right—I will.”

Jihoon makes a face at him, crossing his arms. “That won’t be necessary, I am more than happy to—OH MY—Seungcheol! Set me down!”

There’s a great deal of indignity to be had when one is carried out of the house, down the path, across the gardens and down to the lake, over someone’s shoulder and in full _view_ of the entire household. An incredibly great deal.

Except Jihoon’s laughing too hard to pay attention to who may or may not be looking their way, and by the time Seungcheol sets him back on his feet, there is nobody around to judge him for overlooking such impropriety. Nobody but Seungcheol and Hansol and they’re both grinning so triumphantly, there’d be no point scolding either of them.

Besides, the view of the lake is really beautiful, and with the afternoon sun filtering through the beech leaves, warming his face, Jihoon finds he’s rather happy to have been forced along on their little fishing adventure.

He has absolutely no intention of stepping anywhere _near_ the lake however, because he _knows_ how it will end. Seungcheol or Hansol—perhaps they’ll even _conspire_ together—will attempt to push him into the water.

He doesn’t doubt it for a second. So he takes a seat on a dry patch of grass a safe distance away, and watches them set up their fishing lines and thread their bait.

“If we catch a big trout, can we ask the cook to prepare it for supper?” Hansol asks, bouncing excitedly.

“Good idea,” Seungcheol nods, planting his fishing rod into the soft grass. “And if we catch one too small to feed us, we can place it under a certain _someone’s_ pillow instead.” He adds, nearly in a whisper, a voice meant for sharing secrets.

Jihoon pretends not to hear that, though he can’t stop the grimace that overtakes his face at the thought of finding a dead fish, no matter how small, resting under his pillow.

God—he would not be rid of the smell for _weeks_.

“Don’t worry Jihoon,” Seungcheol chuckles, joining him on the grassy verge, “You are not our intended victim.”

Jihoon snorts inelegantly, “I’m _flattered_ to be spared such cruelty. Though I’m sure it won’t be too long before my turn comes around. I dread to think what pranks you and your brother can conjure when you work together. Perhaps it would be a _mercy_ to find a dead fish under my pillow.”

Seungcheol laughs softly and shakes his head, then placing a hand on Jihoon’s forearm, “You have my word you will never be the target of our mischief. Wouldn’t want your beautiful hair smelling like rotten fish now, would we.” He says, smiling at Jihoon from under lowered lashes.

Jihoon tries to ignore the uncomfortable twist of his stomach as he smiles back.

He has this too-warm sensation travelling down his spine—and, well, other places. Wetting his lips, he slides his eyes away, staring at the sun passing through the trees for a moment, until he feels a gentle tug on the end of his braid.

He turns his head back around and blinks, surprised upon realising it’s Seungcheol, playing with the fine hairs at the end, brushing them back and forth across his fingers. Jihoon tenses, a little, but if Seungcheol feels it, he does not let on.

“Do you ever wear your hair down?” He asks Jihoon after a moment, casual, despite the inappropriateness of the gesture.

Jihoon weathers his lower lip, then allows a small smile to chase away his uncertainty. “Only when I sleep and bathe. It becomes quite bothersome otherwise and takes ages to brush out.”

Seungcheol hums in understanding, then plucking a small daisy out of the grass, he begins weaving it through the centre of the braid. The gesture feels almost distracted, utterly unplanned—but it’s tender nevertheless; done with such meticulous care Jihoon can’t help how his eyes are drawn to the motions of Seungcheol’s hands. 

He’s strangely docile for an Alpha; gentle where nobody expects him to be.

“I often think of cutting it short.” Jihoon murmurs quietly, watching Seungcheol weave a third tiny flower through the braid, though he finds himself laughing out loud at the way Seungcheol immediately pouts and whines a plaintive “ _Noo—don’t do that.”_

Tugging the braid gently out of Seungcheol’s grasp, Jihoon whips it over his shoulder before the Alpha sees fit to weave the entire _forest_ through it.

“If you like playing with long hair so much, why don’t you grown your own head of it?”

Stretching out along the grass, Seungcheol arches a wry eyebrow. “Now Jihoon, I think we both know I would look quite _hilarious_ with long hair. I don’t possess an ounce of grace to carry that look off.” He fiddles with a blade of grass for a moment before adding, “On you though—it’s quite lovely.” 

The Alpha’s eyes are warm, but there is also something else in them—something which Jihoon can't fully make sense of. Before he can begin to search, the fishing lines whir to life and Hansol bellows out, “I caught one!”, right before he is tugged into the lake with a startled yelp.

Jihoon scrambles to his feet, rushing to the edge of water in panic. Hansol can’t swim, and well—neither can he, but the water can’t be _that_ deep. But before he can sacrifice himself to its murky depths, Seungcheol’s already ten steps ahead of him, diving in after Hansol, shirt and boots and all.

He emerges a handful of seconds later, wet as a fish, carrying a sputtering, coughing Hansol in his arms.

Jihoon heaves a relieved sigh and rushes towards them, “Thank god. Is he alright?”

“Yeah—” Seungcheol snorts, hoisting Hansol over his shoulder and patting him on the back, “Stubborn little brat wouldn’t let _go_ of the fishing rod though. Had to pry it out of his hands.”

“I was trying to catch us some supper.” Hansol grumbles, blinking blearily, scrubbing water out of his eyes.

Jihoon resists the urge to roll his eyes at the ridiculous bloody-mindedness of Alpha’s. Even small ones are as bad as the big ones.

Apparently he says this out loud because Seungcheol laughs.

Heedless of the state of his own clothing, Jihoon pulls Hansol out of Seungcheol’s arms and gathers him up in a hug. “You poor thing. I hope you don’t catch a—"

“It was a trout!” Hansol interjects, his arms tight around Jihoon's neck. “Did you see it Jihoon? It was a big one.”

Though he appears quite happy and animated, Jihoon can feel the chill of the wind as it flutters against the thin, damp linen of his shirt, and quickly shucks off his jacket to wrap it around him.

Seungcheol watches them with a soft expression, managing a smile even though his fringe is plastered over his face.

“Yes, I saw it,” Jihoon says, dabbing his cravat over Hansol’s face. “It was the biggest trout I have ever seen in fact. You’re so brave to go in there.” He says, as much to Seungcheol as to Hansol.

Hansol gives a disgruntled little sigh and burrows closer, “It got away though. If…if only I could swim—I would have _wrestled_ with it! Then we could have had it for supper.”

“I’m sure if you ask your brother he will teach you how to swim,” Jihoon says, shooting a glance in Seungcheol’s direction and then….gaping rather stupidly at the sight that greets him.

Seungcheol’s soaking wet, a fact he’s already aware of, yes, but now he’s _shirtless_ too.

Again. He’s shirtless _again_.

He’s just standing in the middle of the grass, muscles glistening under the afternoon sun as he wrings water out of his shirt, and then he pushes his fringe back away from his face and _oh_.

 _Oh_.

Jihoon stares so hard he loses time.

After a moment, Seungcheol catches him looking, then turns to glance behind him. “What is it?”

 _God—how_ can someone be so handsome and so obtuse at the same _time_.

Jihoon swallows thickly and averts his eyes. His tongue feels clumsy in his mouth as he croaks, “Nothing.”

* * *

A trip to the beach is yet another experience in fortitude and averting ones gaze that Jihoon must endure, though Seungcheol’s reasons for being shirtless this time are a tad more acceptable. Only a tad, mind you—as Seungcheol still has no qualms about stripping down to his _drawers_ to take a dip.

Jihoon reckons he would have been happy to strip down a great deal more had Wonwoo not been there to yell, “Your Grace, No!” the second Seungcheol reached to remove his drawers too.

Thankfully, for everyone involved, including the innocent seagulls, Seungcheol’s drawers stay in their rightful place. Though bastion of maturity that Seungcheol is, he does stick his tongue out at Wonwoo, before chasing Hansol down the beach, armed with a live crab.

 _Overgrown puppy—_ Jihoon finds himself thinking, smiling as watches Seungcheol charge into the sea, a laughing Hansol perched on his shoulders.

The afternoon passes quickly and pleasantly, but the merriment of the trip takes its toll on young Hansol, and he falls asleep with his head cradled on Jihoon’s lap halfway through their picnic.

Mr Jeon kindly volunteers to return him to the house, though Jihoon suspects his kindness is hidden behind a deeper hatred for the sun, sea, sand, fresh air and the seagulls that seem intent on attacking him and _only_ him.

Poor man.

His premature departure however, has more than one silver lining, for it leaves Jihoon and Seungcheol completely alone on the beach. And though he is growing accustomed to the magnificent sight of Seungcheol’s bare chest, Jihoon is relieved when the man _finally_ decides to don his shirt again.

A glinting object falls from the pocket as Seungcheol pulls it over his head, and Jihoon is quick to retrieve it before it is lost in the sand.

“You dropped something.” Jihoon says, holding out the glimmering gold ring in his palm as Seungcheol sits next to him on the blanket.

“Ah, thank you—” Seungcheol laughs, making no attempt yet to take it back. “My father would curse me in his grave if I lost it.”

Curious, Jihoon turns the ring between his fingers, marveling at the intricate pattern cut cleanly into the smooth band, the blue sapphire gem in the centre. It glows a soft blue in his palm but brightens considerably the longer he holds it.

“It’s a very fine piece. Did he gift it to you?”

“Not quite.” Seungcheol’s lip curls in a dry smile. “It’s been in our family for hundreds of years, passed down from father to son. It was the token my father gave to my mother during their courtship, and when he passed away, she entrusted me with it. Hoping, I expect, that I would be quick to gift it to a suitable mate as _soon_ as possible.”

Jihoon stiffens as he realises the symbolic value of what he is holding in his hand.

It’s pertinent that he return it to its owner, and quickly.

“It’s very beautiful.” He croaks, pressing the ring into Seungcheol’s palm. “A perfect token when the time comes.”

Seungcheol quirks an amused eyebrow at him, but accepts the ring back this time.

It appears the band is too small to fit him, because instead of sliding it onto one of his fingers, Seungcheol threads it onto a gold chain he removes from his jacket pocket.

“This business of tokens is a little _pointless_ if you ask me.” He says, draping the chain over his neck. “There’s so much emphasis on its importance, but more often than not, it’s employed as a delaying tactic. Why bother with all this frivolity when you can simply lay claim to your chosen mate and solidify your union in the traditional way.”

Jihoon blushes. He never expected this trip to the beach would end with them discussing the more _primal_ mating rituals.

“Perhaps. But I think I do think it is sweet in a way. They say when you gift a token, you imbue a part of your soul on it, so that your intended can have a little piece of you with them wherever they go. And that even after you pass away, they’ll still be able to feel your presence through it. That thought, more than the trinket itself, is what appealed to me the most about having one.”

Seungcheol looks abruptly winded.

“You—you have been gifted a token?” He exclaims with a note of surprise and perhaps, dare Jihoon notice it, envy.

Instinctively, Jihoon finds himself reaching for the locket around his neck, before he remembers there’s nothing there.

“I did, for a while. But—I had to return it.” The words come out far more sombre than he intends. Weighty, more than he should be admitting.

Seungcheol’s expression softens, eyes flickering over Jihoon’s face before dipping to the exposed line of his throat. He bites at his lower lip absently before speaking. “Did you have a change of heart?”

Jihoon shakes his head ruefully.

He knows he's not obligated to inform Seungcheol about his broken courtship. Sehun and him were never engaged and no promises had been made, but some ferocious desperation for complete honesty compels him, and he finds himself confessing with all the solemnity of a guilty parishioner.

“He did actually. My financial circumstances deemed me…unsuitable as a long-term prospect.”

He tries to look into Seungcheol’s eyes as he says it, tries to convey _‘see how little I care, this is all old history, and I am no longer a sad little man, with a sad little man’s grief.’_

But Seungcheol's eyes narrow, reading him far too well considering how briefly they've been acquainted, and Jihoon crumples a bit like a concertina fan from the force of his own caring. He looks askance, pretending to admire the view of the sea. His face burns with shame. Seungcheol must observe this, and it’s with an embarrassingly gentle touch that he turns Jihoon’s face towards him.

“You have nothing to be ashamed of Jihoon. This man you speak of, he is clearly an utter _bastard_.”

Jihoon bursts out laughing he’s so stunned by the pronouncement, though it is foolish to be surprised by anything Seungcheol’s says or does at this point.

“I’m not sorry.” Seungcheol snorts. The way his chin rises might look defiant on a different face, but there are too many unguarded feelings flashing in his eyes. Too much kindness and sincerity in the way he peers through him. “Perhaps I shouldn’t pass judgment on someone I hardly know, but I know _you_ and can vouch for your good character, and to use such a flimsy excuse to end a courtship makes him an utter bastard in my eyes. And maybe I am growing foolish in my old age, but I would prefer to give my heart to someone who loves me for who I am, and not for the size of my estate or my propensity to be generous.”

A tangle of difficult emotion twists in Jihoon's stomach, but he shrugs and forces false levity into his voice. “I felt much the same once, but I have grown to accept that financial stability _is_ important when choosing your mate.”

“No, it’s not.” Seungcheol murmurs. “Money can't tell our hearts where to love.”

There's something raw in the gentle words. An earnestness that makes Jihoon realize Seungcheol is not speaking in the abstract, but with real feeling. Curiosity gnaws at him, and he wonders if there is someone _Seungcheol_ can't have. If his own inclinations run contrary to the expectations of society and family; it would go a long way toward explaining why a Duke of six and twenty years with an immense fortune is still _unmated_.

Jihoon bites his tongue and asks none of the questions suddenly vying for space in his brain.

Perhaps Seungcheol will tell him one day, but it's not his place to demand details.

“In his defence it wasn’t his _only_ reason. My Aunt is my only living relative, and I can’t deny that she has a less than favourable reputation in the community. Apparently her exploits would have been reason enough for him to doubt our future together, even before my woeful financial circumstances came to light.”

Seungcheol is already shaking his head. “Are you not your _own_ person? Why should you be held accountable for the actions of someone else, just because you share blood?”

Jihoon presses his lips together, unable to fully suppress his smile.

“That is a very… _refreshing_ opinion Seungcheol. I’m sorry to say, not many people share it, however. Familial associations are the backbone of your reputation in society. Like a house of cards, one weak hand will inevitably cause the entire deck to stumble.”

Seungcheol looks set to argue that point, frowning as he is, then his expression sobers, “May I ask what it is your aunt _did_ to earn such ungracious opinions?”

“She was a seductress who ran a brothel from her very home.” Jihoon answers flatly.

If he was hoping to shock Seungcheol, he will have to concede defeat. Seungcheol merely raises one aristocratic eyebrow, a dark flag against his otherwise pale skin. 

“Really? Well, brothels are important institutes of any community. I mean—who _hasn’t_ enjoyed some time in a brothel?”

Jihoon claps a hand over his mouth to stop the laugh that bubbles out of his throat.

“My god, Seungcheol, I was only jesting. She did no such thing. She was merely a gossiper and inveterate gambler with many debts. Though it _does_ warm my heart to know you would leap to her defence regardless of how dishonourable her circumstances.”

There is a flash of guilt behind dark eyes—the closest Seungcheol will come to acknowledging that he has perhaps been _trying_ to make light of truly dishonourable circumstances—but it fades quickly. Replaced by something equally candid and honest.

“I wasn’t trying to defend her, I only wished to defend _you_.” He ducks his head, embarrassed. For a second his smile turns rueful than then he looks Jihoon direct in the eye. “Had I been your suitor, I would not have given up on you so easily. Regardless of whatever associations you have, I would not have given up on you.”

Jihoon's breath catches in his throat, whether due to the promise or the fierce resolve lighting up Seungcheol’s eyes, who can say.

Something warm is unfolding in his chest. A tightly guarded pocket of feeling he hadn't even been aware of—a need for this man's approval that he would never have admitted to—and yet now he has it, and his heart instantly feels lighter. Just the thought of Seungcheol becoming more than a friend to him makes him warm all over, and without truly being cognisant of his own body’s movements, he is sitting closer to Seungcheol on the blanket, and his hand presses softly over Seungcheol’s.

“Thank you, Seungcheol.” He says softly, gratitude bringing a heavy hush to the words.

Seungcheol’s answering smile is softer, fonder than it has any right to be, and when he turns his hand to intertwine their fingers, Jihoon’s heart stutters in his chest.

“Don’t suppose I could tempt you to take a swim with me.” He asks, his voice deep and hoarse.

Jihoon can feel the flush climbing up his neck and without meaning to. He blames Seungcheol for using the word "tempt." Who could remain cool and self-possessed with _that_ floating around in the air?

“Would you laugh if I told you I don’t know _how_ to swim.” He admits, letting a hint of smile twitch at one corner of his mouth.

“We don’t have to venture too deeply.” Seungcheol smirks, though his expression softens as he stares down at their interlocked hands. “The water is pleasantly calm, and I will be there to assist you if the need arises.”

“Alright then.” Jihoon nods, letting Seungcheol pull him to his feet.

* * *

“…eight…nine…. _ten_! Ready or not, here I come.” Jihoon calls out, turning away from the wall.

Almost immediately he spots two pairs of shoes poking out from under the curtains at the far side of the room, but he’s a good sport, so makes a show of searching around the room first; checking under the seats, poking his head into the wardrobe, even getting to his knees to search under the bed and declaring out loud, “Where on Earth could they be!”

Even if his hide and seek companions were more adept at picking a good hiding spot, they’re doing a terrible job of keeping quiet. Jihoon can hear them trying to hold back their giggles from far across the room, and the curtains are rustling so obviously now it’s clear they are both seconds away from bursting out laughing.

Nevertheless, he pretends to give up hope of ever finding them again, before carefully tip-toing his way over to the window and swiping the curtains aside with a dramatic gasp.

“Found you!”

Hansol drops to his knees, squealing with laughter, while Seungkwan slumps back against the wall, clapping both hand over his rosy face.

Jihoon is so happy they’re finally having fun together, he readily agrees to a few more rounds of this ridiculous game. Anything to keep them both laughing and smiling.

A few hours ago it had been a different story entirely—where Hansol kept stomping his feet impatiently, while Jihoon tried to gently coax Seungkwan out from under the stairs with a tangerine.

“I don’t think he’d be much fun for the young master to play with, he’s awful shy,” Seungkwan’s mother had said, when Jihoon originally proposed the idea of a little play date, and she hadn’t been wrong. Though a year older than Hansol, Seungkwan was clearly intimidated by the young Alpha, and spent the first hour shying away and hiding behind Jihoon’s legs.

Eventually though, Hansol had stopped huffing and turned on the charm, managing to lure Seungkwan out by bringing him every single toy he owned and setting it at his feet. They’ve been inseparable ever since, and Jihoon only wishes he proposed this sooner.

It’s all perfectly tranquil until Seungcheol arrives in the room unexpectedly, hair standing on end as if he's actually been trying to pull it out. He looks even _more_ harried than he'd been at breakfast this morning, when he’d received an express letter that sent him striding out of the room with a troubled look on his face. Another man follows on his heels, tall and pale and imminently forgettable when standing in Seungcheol's shadow.

"Forgive me, but I must excuse myself from dinner tonight. I have some pressing business I need to see to in town, and I will be returning rather late." Seungcheol says, by way of explanation for his presence, the corners of his mouth turning down in disappointment. Belatedly he notices the new addition to the room, and quickly smoothes out his expression as he smiles down at Seungkwan. "Hello there. And who might this charming young man be?"

Jihoon waits for Seungkwan to bow and introduce himself, but if the boy was shy before, having the full force of Seungcheol's charm aimed at him is clearly somewhat _incapacitating_. All he can do is stare up at Seungcheol with huge, overwhelmed eyes and croak out, “Why are you so huge?”

Jihoon completely sympathises, and takes care of the introductions for him.

"Well it's lovely to meet you, Seungkwan, and do let me know if Hansol is not behaving himself. I will have a stern word with him," Seungcheol tells him, then reaches out to pay Seungkwan on the head, only for the boy to squeak and scurry away into the next room, Hansol hot on his heels.

Seungcheol watches them leave with a bemused tilt to his mouth, before turning his attention to Jihoon.

“What have you been telling him about me?”

Blinking, Jihoon tilts his head, “Whatever do you mean?”

Seungcheol gives him a pointed look, “He behaves in the exact same manner _you_ did when we first met. Like he fears I will devour him whole with a single bite.”

A helpless yelp of laughter escapes Jihoon then. “I never behaved in such a manner with you.”

The corner of Seungcheol’s mouth lifts into a deviant little smirk that seems to say, _‘Oh really?’_ and Jihoon feels his cheeks heat, despite himself.

There’s no denying that at the beginning of their acquaintance he was a little light footed around the Duke, and Seungcheol was clearly wise to it all along. But he doesn’t appear to have taken it to heart, and chuckles warmly as he retreats out of the room.

Smiling to himself, Jihoon begins to collect the toys strewn about the floor before the job can fall on someone already too burdened with work. He’s so preoccupied with the task, he startles a little when an unfamiliar voice speaks suddenly.

“You are unclaimed, are you not?”

Turning towards the voice, Jihoon notices that the stranger accompanying Seungcheol has yet to leave the room. He is still standing, watching Jihoon intently, eyes weeping over his frame in a way that suggests he never learned the meaning of the word ‘ _subtle_.’

“Y-yes, that is correct.” Jihoon answers, stooping down to retrieve a toy soldier off the floor and return him to the toy chest. When he straightens up again, he finds the man has taken the opportunity to invade his personal space.

He’s standing a mere foot away now, looming into Jihoon’s space, uninvited.

“And yet, you reside in this household, under the same roof as an unmated Alpha. A little unorthodox, wouldn’t you say? Or perhaps you are the type of Omega to enjoy such attentions.”

There is a lecherous and wholly disturbing quality to his remark, especially when them man raises a hand to stroke the back of his fingers over Jihoon’s cheek.

Jihoon tenses, muscles locking as he forces himself not to flinch at the unexpected touch. He takes one deep breath, lets it circulate through his whole body before he releases it, forcing the tension out as well before he knocks the man’s hand away before it can complete its journey.

“I fail to see why that is any concern of yours. And we have not been introduced, so I would kindly ask you not to touch me again.”

The flicker of amusement in the man’s eyes is downright nasty as he smiles.

There’s a scraping of boots near the door then, and from the corner of Jihoon’s eyes he can see a set of broad shoulders are filling the frame. When he turns his head, he finds Seungcheol standing there with his fists clenched, watching them with the most vicious look he has ever seen.

It’s dark enough to make Jihoon fall back a step defensively, though the look doesn’t appear to be aimed at him at all. If anything, Seungcheol gaze seems to be fixed on the strange man still invading Jihoon’s space, the strange man who stumbles backwards, face drained of all colour.

“F-forgive me Seungcheol, I meant him no ill will.”

He sounds sincere enough, though Seungcheol’s nostrils flare like a bull being goaded beyond all tolerance. He jerks his head roughly to the side, silently ordering the stranger to follow him, and after a moment’s hesitation, the man follows him out of the room with his head bowed.

* * *

The day seems to slip away from him, after that. He plays with the children a while longer, then walks them down to the stables to pet the new colts, takes his afternoon tea with Wonwoo, prepares his teaching schedule for the following day, has dinner with Hansol, then prepares him for bed and reads him a bedtime story. By the time he has a moment to himself, it’s already past dark.

Though Daegu Park is never truly deserted—there’s always someone manning the doors, or wandering the halls at night—there’s a hush over the Manor once night falls. On nights when he cannot drift off to sleep—of which there are many—Jihoon sometimes reads in the library or wanders through the garden. Having neglected to take supper, this time his wanderings take him to the kitchen, despite feeling a certain amount of guilt over helping himself to food, as if he were a wicked child sneaking sweets, instead of a hungry man salvaging some biscuits and a cup of tea.

He’s filling the kettle with water, staring into the low embers of the fire, when he hears a suspicious rustling sound coming from somewhere behind him.

It’s coming from the back door in fact, the one that the servants use for deliveries, and the sound is the sharp scrape of a blunt tool as _someone_ tries to pry it open.

Setting the kettle aside in a panic, Jihoon blindly reaches for something to defend himself as the door swings open, only to breathe out a sigh of relief as Seungcheol appears in the doorway.

“Gods, Seungcheol. You scared me half to death.” Jihoon gasps, hand over his pounding heart, “I thought you were an intruder, I very nearly attacked you.”

“Well, please don’t.” Seungcheol smiles, holding up both hands, “I’ve had a long day, and the last thing I want is to get stabbed with a carrot.”

Blinking, Jihoon glances at the object he brandished to defend himself with and determines that, yes, it is in fact a carrot. He tosses it aside with an embarrassed huff and rubs at his tired, gritty eyes.

“What are you doing sneaking in through the service entrance anyway? H-have you only just _returned_?”

“Ah, yes,” Seungcheol grins, shucking his overcoat off. He folds it over the back of a chair, and ghosts his hands across his thighs, as if smoothing invisible wrinkles in his britches. “My business affairs in town took longer than I anticipated. I had a bit of an unexpected detour.”

Which must mean he’s not only missed dinner, but supper too. Surely he must be starved be now, and with most of the household retired for the night, it will be up to Jihoon to see that he is fed and watered.

“You must be starved. Take a seat, I was just about to make tea, but I can prepare something for you to eat as well.”

“No, please, don’t worry yourself.” Seungcheol waves him off, rounding the table quickly, “I only intended to grab a few apples and some milk.”

Jihoon shakes his head, reaching for the kettle anyway, “That is hardly a sufficient meal to carry you through till breakfast tomorrow. Please let me prepare you something. I am no cook, but I can certainly put together something more satisfying than a few apples.”

Seungcheol looks like he may continue to protest, but his stomach decides to rumble loudly then, and without further ado, Jihoon quickly ushers him into the most comfortable chair at the table and gets to work.

The kitchen is a touch too cold this late at night, so Jihoon tosses a few logs in the fire and stokes it as he begins to steep a new pot of tea.

There is still stew leftover from the night’s supper on the stove, but it’s already cold and perhaps too heavy for this late at night. So Jihoon searches through the pantry instead, collecting some bread and cheese and cold cuts of meat, seizes a handful of green grapes as well as some of the cheese scones intended for the morning’s breakfast he finds in a half-closed tin, and arranges it on the tray with the tea.

It’s not a meal fit for a Duke by any means, but it hardly seems to matter. Seungcheol starts wolfing it all down the second Jihoon sets the tray in front of him, stopping only once to blink wide eyes at him and mumble, “M’sorry—guess I was hungrier than I thought.”

Jihoon smiles back warmly as he pours out the tea, adds a splash of milk to Seungcheol’s cup and sweetens it to his likening.

Seungcheol accepts the tea with nod and drinks it down with three gulps, heedless to the way it must be burning his tongue. Jihoon marvels at his tolerance for scalding liquids, before his gaze is drawn to a more peculiar site. In the low light, he can see the ruffled cuff of Seungcheol’s sleeve is soaked in blood, and where his hand clasps the cup, a deep gash that looks like the sharp indent of _teeth_.

“What happened to your hand?” Jihoon whispers, pushing his own cup aside to get a better look, only for that table to jerk and shudder as Seungcheol shoves his hand under the table and out of sight.

“It’s nothing. I just…..knocked it off something.” Seungcheol says after an ominous pause.

Jihoon very much doubts that simplicity of that story. Unless Seungcheol knocked it off someone’s _face_ , he very much doubts that indeed.

He knows better than to question Seungcheol any further though, choosing instead to slip out of his chair and down the hallway to fetch the meagre medical supplies Mr Jeon keeps in his office.

Seungcheol, who is polishing off the last of his supper when he returns, takes one look at the items Jihoon has gathered and begins to protest how unnecessary they are. Choosing to ignore him, Jihoon sets the items out on the table then simply stares at Seungcheol soberly until he relinquishes his injured hand.

Thankfully the extent of Seungcheol’s injury is not as bad as Jihoon feared; once he pulls back Seungcheol’s sleeve and begins cleaning the wound, it becomes clear that the bite mark is not at all deep; more a reflexive scraping of teeth than an intentional bite. Though Seungcheol’s knuckles have been scraped raw and his hand is a swollen, like perhaps he’d been punching something with considerable force when that _something_ decided to bite him.

Jihoon wonders whether it is wise of him to ask.

It seems very unlikely that any of Seungcheol’s business affairs would end in a petty brawl, or even that the man himself is the type to go around throwing his fists in any situation in fact. But the injury speaks for itself, and just as Jihoon draws breath to speak, Seungcheol calmly cuts in.

“It seems you are a patient teacher, an exemplary pianist _and_ a kindly nurse. A very fine skill set indeed. I look forward to finding out what other wonders you are capable of.”

Jihoon’s stomach tangles pleasantly as he gently dabs some tincture on Seungcheol’s knuckles.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you Seungcheol, but I’m afraid that is all there is to me.”

Seungcheol snorts, flexing his hand a little, “Ah—of course, modesty. How could I have forgot a perfect creature like you would be in possession of that too.”

Jihoon flushes ever so slightly, but keeps his focus on the task at hand.

With the wound now cleaned and anointed, he rolls out a fresh strip of gauze and begins to wrap it around the width of Seungcheol’s hand, taking care not to strap it too tightly. He is tying the frayed ends together when Seungcheol whispers, “You have very beautiful hands.”

Jihoon’s hands still over the bandage as he raises his eyes to stare at the alpha seated next to him. The fire in the grate is dying down, but he doesn’t think he’s mistaking the look on Seungcheol’s face; there is something very like banked embers in Seungcheol’s eyes as he stares back.

“W-would you like some more tea? I—I think there’s enough for another cup,” Jihoon murmurs, searching for something, _anything_ to distract them both from the precipice they’re teetering on.

Examining Jihoon’s handiwork with a slow flex of his hand, Seungcheol keeps him trapped with his piercing stare a moment too long. The tip of his tongue passes over his lips as he drops his gaze to Jihoon’s mouth.

Jihoon doubts he is even aware of his actions. 

“That would be lovely, thank you.”

* * *

“What’s this?” Seungcheol asks, when Hansol interrupts their afternoon tea to present them both with a letter; cream-coloured envelope the like of which can be found in Mr Jeon’s office, except this one has been hastily written and is a little torn, and has been sealed inexpertly with too much wax.

“It’s an invitation to my wedding.” Hansol answers with aplomb. He stands with his hands clasped behind him, looking much too serious and gentlemanly for his age. “I know it’s a bit last minute, but I really hope you both can make it. Oh and don’t worry about bringing a gift, we don’t expect any presents. Although, if you _really_ wanted to, you could bring me some plum cake. That would be the best wedding gift.”

“Ooh, a wedding. How lovely,” Jihoon says, biting back the urge to smile as he scans through the letter for the particulars of this surprise wedding—which if he’s not mistaken, will be held in Hansol’s Playroom, and in less than an _hour_ from now.

How convenient.

Seungcheol, who possesses a much more convincing game face then him, pretends to mull over his letter a little longer, and a lot more judiciously, before finally saying, “And who exactly are you planning to marry Hansol? Hmm? You seem to have missed out that little _detail_ in your invitation.”

Hansol wrinkles his nose, like the answer should be _obvious_.

“Seungkwan of course.”

“Oh, _of course.”_ Jihoon says knowingly, and his smile slips loose, “I am so happy to hear that you two have become such good friends.”

“We are more than friends now.” Hansol says, puffing out his chest. “We are _best_ friends. It makes sense to get married as quickly as possible.”

Seungcheol cast a sideways glance at Jihoon, both eyebrows raised in impish delight before he quickly schools his features into nonchalance. “Uh Hansol, don’t you think you should wait till your seventh birthday before you make such a big decision? Or at least until you’ve known the boy longer than a few weeks?”

“No,” Hansol shakes his head quickly, “We must get married _today_. I can’t wait any longer.”

Seungcheol gives him an assessing look before rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Tell me dear brother, does Seungkwan _know_ you intend to marry him today?”

Hansol’s look of shocked indignation is an absolute treasure. It’s clear he’s completely forgotten to mention his impending marriage to his future spouse.

“N-no.” He mumbles, staring down at his shoes, his face the colour of an overripe plum, “But I can’t imagine he’d mind. He likes me—he told me so himself. And he let me hold his hand all day yesterday.”

“He let you hold his hand?” Seungcheol blows a low, drawn-out whistle. “Ah, well, in that case, clearly marriage is the next logical step.”

Jihoon bites the inside of his cheek, trying desperately hard not to laugh.

“Will there be any _other_ guests in attendance?” He asks, trying to act serious despite his obvious amusement.

Hansol juts his chin out, like he can’t fathom what Jihoon finds so funny; there is clearly nothing to laugh about when planning a six-year-old’s wedding. This is serious business indeed.

“Yes, many, many guests with come. All my toys are coming, as well as Mrs Boo and Mr Jeon. I don’t think Mr Jeon approves of the wedding, but he would be very sad if I did not invite him, and I sort of need him to uhm… _afflicalate_? Yes that’s the word, I need him to afficilate the ceremony. Oh, and Clip Clop will come too of course. You will see to it that Clip Clop comes to my wedding, won’t you Seungcheol? He is one of my dearest friends.”

Seungcheol scratches the side of his head in an obvious attempt to hide his grin. “And uhm, how do you _propose_ I get Clip Clop into the house and up the staircase to the Playroom?”

“With some sugar cubes of course. Use your brain man!” Hansol huffs.

Jihoon has to cover his face to stop himself snorting at the eloquent, slightly offended eyebrow Seungcheol levels in response to that.

“Well—” Seungcheol clears his throat loudly, “You’ve certainly planned this wedding very well Hansol. I daresay I’m impressed. Though I’m not sure I particularly _approve_ of the idea of my six-year-old brother getting married before me.”

Hansol’s hands drop to his sides as he squares his shoulders, “Well that’s too bad Seungcheol. Someone has to continue the Choi bloodline, and since you and Jihoon are taking _forever_ to fall in love and make pups, I guess it’s up to me.”

Seungcheol laughs outright at that, and try as he might, Jihoon can’t help but join in.

* * *

Jihoon edges towards the half open door on tentative footsteps, because despite his honourable intentions, he is well aware of the impropriety of being found in Seungcheol’s chambers uninvited.

Simply put—he is trespassing. Even if Seungcheol is injured, even if he is groaning in pain, even if all he intended to do was leave the jar of healing salve on his bedside table and scurry away, he knows he should not enter the Alpha’s chambers. Yet, at the sound of another pained curse coming from the bathroom, Jihoon cannot help but inch closer.

He can tell that Seungcheol is in the bath because there is a cloud of steam floating out of the open door, and the low gauzy haze is thick enough to obscure his vision. Nevertheless, he finds himself knocking gently.

“Seungcheol? I’m sorry to disturb you, but I just wanted to check how you were fairing.”

There is nothing but silence for a few seconds, like perhaps Seungcheol too is stunned by Jihoon’s gall to call upon him in his private chambers to speak. But that worry is soon shelved when the Alpha chuckles and says, in a manner that is nothing but self-effacing. “It is truly kind of you to check up on me Jihoon, but I am fine, honestly. It’s not the first time I’ve fallen off a horse and it certainly won’t be my last.”

Jihoon frowns uncertainly, stepping closer towards the door separating them, “Are you sure? Please do not make light of your injuries for my sake Seungcheol. I was there, I know it was a nasty fall, and I know I am responsible.”

There’s the sound of water splashing everywhere, followed by a muffled curse, as if Seungcheol’s jumped up too suddenly in surprise.

“What? No, no, that’s—that’s ridiculous Jihoon.” Seungcheol splutters a moment later, “You had nothing to do with it. You didn’t startle the horse and push me off the saddle, it was my own carelessness.”

Jihoon shrugs, realizes Seungcheol can’t see him through the door, and answers, “But you wouldn’t have been riding that beast in the first place had it not been for me. I was the one who insisted I ride Clip Clop, even though he is _your_ favourite. I should have been the one to ride the Devil horse.”

“Nonsense.” Seungcheol’s snorts echoes loudly, “Clip Clop is the perfect choice for beginners, he is tame and gentle, and had you not picked him first, I would have insisted upon it anyway. Besides it wouldn’t have mattered which horse I was riding; I wasn’t paying attention to my surroundings. Please do not concern yourself any further, I assure you, I am quite alright.”

Jihoon huffs softly, shaking his head at the innate doggedness of Alphas.

“In any case, I have brought you a medicinal salve that will aid your recovery. I’ll leave it out here for you.”

“A salve?” Seungcheol calls out curiously, before Jihoon can step away from the door.

“Ah yes, it’s a recipe of my own design. It draws heat from the skin and helps reduce inflammation. Admittedly, the smell is quite potent, but if you rub it in counter clockwise, it works wonders on aching bones and bruises.”

Silence stretches again, but it's shorter this time and at last Seungcheol declares, “Well now that you mention it, I do have a slight ache in my shoulder. Perhaps the salve will help. Would you be so kind as to bring it to me?”

Jihoon startles a little at the request, but upon reflection he determines that _surely_ there would be no harm in bringing Seungcheol the salve. The Alpha has clearly been trivialising the extent of his injuries and the least Jihoon can do is set the salve within reach, so Seungcheol will not have to strain too much.

Steeling himself, he pushes his way inside the bathroom and—falters.

Seungcheol is not quite the walking bruise Jihoon expected him to be, nor is he the picture of imperviousness either. There is indeed a large bruise stretching up his left flank and curling up and over his shoulder where he took the brunt of the fall, but it’s his state of undress that catches Jihoon’s attention the most.

The tub is not nearly deep enough for a fully grown Alpha to sink it to. Not at all. Wisps of steam curl in the air around him, condensing along his skin and running in glistening rivulets down the dips and valleys of his body and—oh _. Oh._

Jihoon feels very faint.

Certainly, he should have expected this. The man is _bathing_ after all—Jihoon cannot expect him to remain modest under such circumstances—but he is still discomfited by the way his brain has abruptly turns into porridge and his body heats uncomfortably. A heat that has nothing to do with the steam clouding the small space.

Nevertheless, he is here with purpose. So Jihoon steps over to the tub, wrestling with himself to not stare at Seungcheol’s nakedness, and wins the victory by determinedly staring at Seungcheol’s nose instead, and his heavy-lidded gaze.

He means to set the jar on a small stool next to the tub, only for Seungcheol’s voice to halt him mid-stride.

“Do you mind?” He asks, disturbing the water as he leans forward in the tub. “I would apply the salve myself, but I fear I won’t be able to reach that far in my current state.”

Again, Jihoon startles.

Seungcheol wants Jihoon to touch him? His bare flesh? While he’s naked and glistening? That is probably…

No, that is _most definitely_ inappropriate. Just sharing a room with an unmated, naked Alpha is already a precarious enough situation, never mind _touching_ one. But Seungcheol _is_ terribly injured, Jihoon reasons with himself, and for lack of anything else to do, he takes a seat on the stool next to the bath and unscrews the jar.

Dipping his fingers into the salve, Jihoon scoops out a generous portion and begins to knead the bruised, water-dampened skin—trying to maintain a light, innocent touch whilst his hands tremble and every nerve lights up with the contact. He is merely treating an injury, he continues to remind himself, but there’s something undeniably intimate about the whole thing regardless. Especially when Seungcheol responds with a low, pleased sound, a little tremor of pleasure shaking him, and rolls his shoulders back into the touch.

The answering twisting sensation in the pit of Jihoon's stomach is not entirely new, but it’s more difficult to ignore this time, even when he removes his hand and asks—with what he thinks is far too much hopeful inflection, “That should do it, unless you hurt anywhere else?”

“Hmm, pretty much everywhere really.” Seungcheol says, leaning back against the porcelain and shutting his eyes. Soap residue forms spiralling white vines in the water, lapping against his chest. 

Jihoon looks away in an effort to conceal his smile, “I fear I do not have enough salve for that your grace.”

“I’m sure you’ll do the best you can.” Seungcheol says, voice thick and syrupy, his vowels crowded together into one long _drawl_.

Jihoon humours him, though his eyes remain averted as he dips his fingers back into the jar and begins to apply the salve on the mottling of purple bruises over Seungcheol’s chest.

Even in the bath, Seungcheol wears his token on the chain around his neck, and Jihoon tries to focus on it instead of letting his eyes wander too low. Not that Seungcheol is in any state to even notice a wandering gaze of course. The humidity in the bathroom has snuffed out all but one of the candles and combined with Seungcheol’s earlier exertions, Jihoon can tell he’s steadily slipping towards sleep. Somehow he still possesses the wherewithal to slur a quiet _‘Don’t stop—still hurts’_ when Jihoon pauses his ministrations briefly.

“I should probably have warned you this salve has quite a few side effects if applied too liberally.” Jihoon teases, even knowing it will keep Seungcheol from sleep for another few minutes.

Seungcheol opens his eyes just enough to give Jihoon a curious glance accompanied by a raised eyebrow. “Yeah, like what?”

Jihoon give a one-shouldered shrug. “Oh you know, skin discolouration, hideous blistering, widespread hair loss to name a few.”

“Hmm—I think I will take my chances anyway.” Seungcheol hums, head lolling back against the tub.

Jihoon giggles, hand slipping into the water, spreading warmth up his wrist and forearm as he follows the path of the bruise downwards. He knows he should put a stop to this now—he tells himself this repeatedly because this has _definitely_ entered the realms of inappropriate behaviour.

Though for some inexplicable reason his hand drifts lower and lower anyway, until the back of his knuckles brush against something hard and—

Jihoon startles back with a half-scream when Seungcheol jumps up suddenly, catching hold of his wrist with strong fingers.

Flailing stupidly, Jihoon tries to pull his arm back, but Seungcheol doesn't make any move to release him just yet. He holds Jihoon’s hand under the water for a long moment, a troubled and uncertain frown in the middle of his forehead, before slowly uncurling his fingers enough for Jihoon to slip free.

“I’m sorry Seungcheol,” Jihoon murmurs, holding a hand over his pounding heart, heedless for the water dampening his shirt. “I—I did not realise I was—”

“That salve _is_ quite potent.” Seungcheol interrupts, smiling genially. “Thank you Jihoon, I feel much better already.”

Jihoon ignores the fire of shame in his cheeks and summons a dignified voice from somewhere deep inside his chest.

“I’m glad to hear it.”

* * *

“Do you like it?” Seungcheol asks, when he catches Jihoon eyeing the sculpture situated in the corner of the drawing room.

“Oh, uhm—yes. It’s lovely.” Jihoon murmurs, because there is little else he _can_ say.

“It was a coming of age gift from my father.” Seungcheol explains, barely looking up from his book. He is settled on his divan by the window, valiantly attempting to read a leather-bound volume from his study, which, if Jihoon cocks his head to a better angle, he can see is a collection of romantic poetry.

How…. _peculiar_.

He honestly didn’t expect Seungcheol to be the poetry sort, never mind the _romantic_ poetry sort.

“It’s a little low brow, I know, my mother almost fainted when she first saw it. But I quite I like it, and it _is_ tradition that we have a sculpted portrait to commemorate the occasion, and well—it _was_ a very warm day.” Seungcheol adds, waving a hand at the statue's distinct lack of, ahem, _clothing_.

It takes a moment for that information to sink in, then a _further_ moment for Jihoon to collect his jaw off the floor.

“I—I had no idea it was of _you_.”

“Really?” Seungcheol glances over the top of his book, a perplexed wrinkle between his eyes as he surveys the statue, “I am told the resemblance is _uncanny_.”

Jihoon studies the sculpture with renewed interest, then has to quickly blink and look away when he realizes his gaze has been lingering not on the sculpture’s face, but on the impressive girth hanging between its legs.

“It uhm, it’s a magnificent piece nevertheless,” he says— _even if the artist clearly took a few liberties with the exaggerated scaling of certain areas_ —he carefully doesn’t add.

Seungcheol turns to him with a speculative look in his eyes. “I do value your honesty Jihoon. Please tell me, does it not do me justice, or do _I_ perhaps not do it justice?”

Jihoon manages a smile for him, trying valiantly not to blush, “Well, if you must know……. Your ears are all wrong.”

“What?” Seungcheol gives him an aggrieved look. “What do you mean my ears are wrong?”

“In the sculpture I mean.” Jihoon is quick to point out. While Seungcheol pouts, he goes on. “You can scarcely tell you have ears when you look at it. Your ears stick _out_ more in real life.”

“They do?” Seungcheol murmurs, sounding aggrieved now too. Lifting a hand subconsciously to touch one of said ears, his lower lip rolls out in his very best pout, “Then I have no choice but to have them pinned back at once.”

“No, no I didn’t mean it like that.” Jihoon says, words crowding around his thick, stupid tongue. “Your ears are a most charming feature Seungcheol, I merely meant to say it was a shame the sculpture missed a prominent feature of your face.”

Seungcheol points an accusing finger, “That’s not what you said to begin with. You said they stick out.”

“Yes, but in an _endearing_ manner.” Jihoon protests.

Seungcheol stares at him in bald disbelief. “Oh, brilliant. That’s just what every man wants to hear. My ears are _endearing_ —I will sleep well tonight.”

It’s with great effort that Jihoon resists the urge to roll his eyes. “I thought you _valued_ my honesty?”

“I value it a lot less now that I have been slighted.” Seungcheol huffs. Yet even as he speaks he is smiling, the corner of his mouth pulling upwards as if instead of taking offence at what Jihoon has said, they are sharing in a jest.

Jihoon wants very badly to make him smile some more.

“Don’t be so childish Seungcheol. I have not _slighted_ you—I am merely pointing out the small inaccuracies in the sculpture. You are still a remarkably handsome man.”

Snapping the book shut, Seungcheol quirks an eyebrow at him, “I think I much prefer this line of conversation. Please, continue—I am a remarkable handsome man _and_?”

Jihoon laughs, a surprised chuckle of sound at the uncharacteristic audacity of the demand. The charming arrogance in Seungcheol’s posture, the glint of sly expectation in dark eyes. Seungcheol is in so many ways a giant puppy when he’s like this, seeking approval, demanding a pat on the head by all accounts. Under the circumstances, Jihoon doesn’t think he should give in too easily.

“ _And_ has a frightfully large ego that I refuse to feed.” Jihoon parries, turning his head away quickly.

Seungcheol makes an offended noise from somewhere behind him, but Jihoon pays him no bother as he collects his supplies and leaves the room.

Arriving at the library, Jihoon sets out his books and papers on the table by the window. With Hansol still napping and Wonwoo busy instructing the cooks downstairs, he doesn’t expect any interruptions as he begins collecting books for tomorrow’s lessons. He certainly doesn’t expect the broad chest that presses against his back, the curl of strong hands around his waist and the voice whispering in his ear, “Come walk with me.”

“Where?” Jihoon whispers back, keeping his eyes focused on the books and papers before him.

“Down to the shore.” Seungcheol’s lips are moving against his skin and Jihoon shudders at the sensation, at feeling him so close. It takes monumental effort not to groan out load and press back into his warmth.

“At this hour?” He keeps his voice light, masking his surprise with a hint of teasing. “The sunset is almost upon us Seungcheol, and dinner will be set at any moment.”

Seungcheol makes a small, huffy noise in his ear, “But there’s a small lighthouse there, with a really beautiful view of the sunset. I wanted you to see it. And it’s the least you could do, after you made fun of my _ears_.”

Jihoon turns to face him, excuses dancing on the tip of his tongue, but he finds he can’t utter a single word with the way Seungcheol’s looking at him.

It should be patently ridiculous for a grown man of Seungcheol’s intimidating stature to be attempting the beseeching puppy dog eyes, but Seungcheol’s endearing look is more potent than even _Hansol’s_.

Which should be an improbability really.

He’s an Alpha, he _towers_ over Jihoon.

He should not be allowed to look so…so…so _adorable_.

“I think it extremely unfair how difficult I find it to refuse you anything.” Jihoon sighs, weary, with an edge of fondness.

Fire flashes in Seungcheol's eyes, but banks quickly. 

“You can’t imagine how happy that knowledge makes me.” He chuckles, sounding pleased with himself, “I have a great _number_ of things I wish to ask of you, and now that I am certain you won’t refuse, I shan’t hesitate in asking.”

Jihoon eyes him curiously, “Oh? What _sort_ of things?”

Seungcheol’s expression clouds abruptly as a serious look overtakes his face—a heavy consideration that stops Jihoon from opening his mouth to ask what’s wrong.

“Would you—” He starts and stops, as if he isn’t sure how to go on, hesitating though he said he wouldn’t. Then he clears his throat and says, “Have you considered what you will do once the season ends?”

Jihoon blinks at him, chest swelling with pleased surprise and a flicker of confusion. 

He had been beginning to wonder, in his secret and anxious innermost heart, if Seungcheol would consider making his position in the household _permanent_. He never dared to ask, but perhaps he won’t have to? Perhaps, _now_ there will be no need to return to his little town when the season ends, feeling like he’s left a part of his soul behind.

“Only that, Hansol adores you,” Seungcheol murmurs, when he fails to answer for too long, “And I fear his enthusiasm will decline in your absence.”

Jihoon laughs, “Nonsense,” He says, “There will be plenty of governesses far more skilled then I when he returns to the city. I doubt my replacement will be _that_ hard to come by.”

He expects Seungcheol to laugh with him, but instead he fixes Jihoon with an unusually penetrating gaze, touches one knuckle to Jihoon’s chin, and tilts his face up.

"You are a man of singular character Jihoon; irreplaceable. I dread the morning my eyes do not meet yours.”

Jihoon stares, stunned at the bluntness of Seungcheol words, at how utterly sincere they sound. For several endless moments, he is silent as he absorbs them. They seem impossible, and yet the look on Seungcheol's face leaves no room for doubt.

He draws a steadying breath, but is prevented from saying anything when, suddenly, there is a sharp knock on the door.

They both stiffen as Wonwoo appears in the doorway, looking a little more pale than usual.

Bowing, he draws breath to speak, only for his eyes to dart down to where Seungcheol’s hand curls around Jihoon’s chin, and there’s something quick and sharp in his face that lingers even after Seungcheol drops the hand away.

“Apologies for the interruption your grace, but there is an urgent message for you in your study.”

Seungcheol’s rigid posture deflates with a sigh, and he closes his eyes. Just for a moment. Opens them again and gives a tight, unhappy nod. 

“Perhaps we can continue this discussion later?”

Jihoon nods in answer.

* * *

Unfortunately, the oppurtunity to continue their discussion is delayed even further, when on the following morning, Seungcheol is called away to the city for an unknown yet urgent purpose.

Jihoon is a little out of sorts with how keenly aware he is of the Alpha’s absence, almost from the moment he departs, but he does his best to continue his routine as normal. He still has many things to occupy him in Seungcheol’s absence: his books, his letters, his quiet strolls through the gardens, and with his older brother gone Hansol demands his company more than ever, so it really leaves little time to sulk.

The routine is disturbed a few days later however, by the sudden and untimely arrival of Seungcheol and Hansol’s mother: the Dowager Duchess.

The unexpected visit has the entire house in uproar, with Hansol in a huff and all the servants in a panic, and somehow Jihoon finds himself caught in the middle of it.

No sooner has he sat Hansol down for his morning lessons, has a maid appeared to whisk him away to greet his mother. At a loss for what to do, Jihoon remains in the library, certain his presence will not be required, only for a harried looking Wonwoo to come brusting through the doors.

“Jihoon, I must ask a favour of you.” He says, panting with exertion. “Hansol has run off to hide somehwere before he could greet the Dowager, and none of the footmen can find him. But perhaps you can call him out of his hiding spot. He will listen to you.”

Jihoon stands quickly, fear taking a tight grip on his shoulders and making him even more upright and rigid than usual.

“He ran away? But why?”

“So he won’t have to spend time with the Dowager of course,” Wonwoo hisses, clearly trying to be mindful of his volume and the delicacy of their conversation.

He needn’t have bothered.

No sooner has he spoken, does the door to the library swing open behind them and a fashionably dressed woman comes strolling in, looking as still and cool as a garden statue.

Jihoon had privately questioned why a child as young as Hansol lives here, in Daegu Park, when his mother is still very much alive and residing in the the city. He’d always assumed the Dowager was in poor health, or that she was far too important a figure to concern herself with the routine of her youngest son, as many people of great fortunes often are. But now, as he looks upon the woman staring back at him with open distate, he determines that perhaps Hansol’s seclusion is by _choice_.

As respectably and finely dressed as she is, the Dowager doesn’t appear to be all that pleseant. Her uptilted chin and dismissive gaze reek of arrogant superiority, and the way she floats into the centre of the room and commandeers a seat, without so much as a greeting suggests her only concern in life is her _own_ comfort.

Jihoon very much doubts she possess the patience to care for a small, mischievious child, but is carefuly to give a slight bow for proprieties sake. She is the Dowager after all, and he cannot afford to be rude even when she is.

“Apologies your Grace, I still have not been able to find Hansol. But I have secured help from his tutor. Mr Lee will aid me—” Wownoo begins to flutter around her, making all the appropriate excuses, only to be silenced with a single look.

“That doesn’t concern me.” The Dowager says, waving him away as she peers at Jihoon across the room. “So, I take it _you_ are the Omega that has infiltrated my Son’s household and driven him _mad_.”

Jihoon colours a little with the chastisement and swallows thickly, “Uh—I—”

“Don’t bother denying it, I heard all about his irrational behaviour.” The Dowager cuts in tersley, sniffing her disapproval as she speaks. “He near pummeled a dear old friend of his to death and for what? For looking at you? Touching you? I raised him better than to submit to his primal instincts, and in a short few months you have managed to reduce him to lunacy.”

Jihoon's heart stammers behind his ribs at the revelation, recalling Seungcheol’s bloodied and bruised knuckles, the bite on his hand. Of all the reasons he had been trying and failing to come up with, he could not have imagined that _he_ had been the cause of Seungcheol’s brawl that night.

As he watches on numbly, the Dowager pulls out an Ivory Brisee and begins to fan herself, as if his scent bothers her somehow. Then, pointing at a chair across the room, she orders him to _sit_.

For lack of anything better to say, Jihoon claims the seat and put his hands on his knees like he doesn’t know what he should do with them. He feels the Dowager’s eyes on him, piercing right through him, finding a way into his head, but attempts to remain calm and composed even as the woman’s lips curl into a harsh sneer.

“Mr Jeon seems to think you are owed certain _gratitude_ for enforcing good habits on my youngest, and while I do not deny there may be some truth in that, I do not approve of your hiring. At all. A Beta would have been a much more suitable choice. Don’t you agree Mr Jeon?” She says, eyes flicking to Wonwoo, brief and dismissive.

Wonwoo makes a small, involuntary noise—clearly uncomfortable about being put on the spot. Though when he speaks, his voice doesn’t betray his nervousness, “Yes, your Grace. Indeed a Beta _would_ have been a more appropriate choice for a tutor, however, Mr Lee has—”

“Exactly.” The Dowager quickly speaks over him, “The only Omega that should reside under this roof is the one my eldest son chooses as his mate, and since we all know that will _never_ be you, my only question is, when do you intend to _leave_?”

The question lands like a physical blow, and Jihoon nearly falls out of his seat. His face warms, and his chest chills, and his eyes go painfully wide. He tries to catch Wonwoo’s gaze, but as the man’s gaze is firmly rooted to the floor, he has no choice but to answer for himself. 

“A-as it stands, my contract is only till the end of the summer season your grace.”

“And it will remain so.” The Dowager says, nodding sharply at Jihoon. “Once the season ends, you will depart and Mr Jeon will find Hansol a more suitable tutor. Are we in agreement?”

Defensiveness bubbles up in Jihoon’s chest and he tamps it down because what else is there to say? Yes, his heart is breaking—he can feel the threat of everything he’s ever loved coming down around his ears—but how can he argue with the demands of the Dowager Duchess without illiciting offence and damning himself anyway.

He _can’t_.

He has no choice but to agree, and has almost resigned himself to the invitability, when suddenly the door bursts open again and Hansol comes stomping in, his tiny fists clenched.

The Dowager takes one look at him then levels an expectant eyebrow in Wonwoo’s direction. It’s only when Wonwoo steps forward to whisper something in her ear that Jihoon realises she doesn’t recognise him. Her own child.

“Ah, of course,” The Dowager says as Wonwoo steps back again, then beckons Hansol forward with a wave of her fan, “Come come. Come greet your mother.”

“No, I don’t want to. I don’t like it when you visit!” Hansol yells, then sprinting across the room, he throws himself into Jihoon’s lap, “And Jihoon’s not going anywhere. He’s staying here with me and Seungcheol. So you can go back to the city. Nobody wants you here!”

There is a moment's perfect stillness. Silent shock. Incredulity stretching taut on a scant breeze.

Then the Dowager’s face turns grim as she turns to Jihoon and snarls, “Such cheek. This is your doing I suspect. You’ve taught him to behave this way.”

“Leave him alone!” Hansol wails, his eyes glazing over with unshed tears and his bottom lip quivering.

The sharp cry succeeds at reclaiming the Dowager’s attention, but it does nothing to dispel the lightning storm that flashes across her face.

She opens her mouth, a damning reproach on the tip of her tongue no doubt, when the door to the library bursts open a _forth_ time and Seungcheol comes marching in looking none too happy.

Jihoon is so immensly relieved by his arrival, that it takes him a moment to realise that the Alpha is still dressed in his full riding gear. The heavy long-coat and riding boots splattered with mud suggest that not only has he _just_ returned from his trip, but that he has also forsaken the proper etiquette of changing to make his prescence known as quickly as possible.

He must have ridden overnight to return from the city so early in the day, and the dark circles under his eyes say as much. His face is drawn and sombre, irritated—so unlike his usual self, but Jihoon is too happy to wilt away from such an expression, and breathes out a happy sigh even as Seungcheol commands Wonwoo to vacate the room and take Hansol with him.

Hansol looks fit to protest, but the Duke’s thunderous expression brooks no opposition, and after a moment of huffing, Hansol allows himself to be led away quietly by Wonwoo.

Jihoon himself moves to stand as well, only to find a hand coming to rest on his shoulder, keeping him in place.

He doesn’t have to turn to know it’s Seungcheol, silenty requesting fortitude for the awkward conversation that lies ahead. So he remains seated, even as Seungcheol steps away a moment later, tugging his riding gloves off as he goes.

“Mother, I was surprised to hear you’d left not long after I arrived in the city. Why bother requesting my company when you intended to return to Daegu Park anyway? Unless of course, it was not _my_ company you sought.” Seungcheol asks dubiously, stepping past Jihoon into the middle of the room.

The tip of the Dowager’s tongue appears between her lips and her eyes narrow. “Well our correspondance _must_ have been waylaid, I had no knowledge of your arrival in the city. And besides, I had concerns about the management of Hansol’s routine. I needed to see it for myself.”

Seungcheol's lip twitches, but doesn't quite manage a smile, sarcastic or otherwise.

“It certainly warms my heart to hear of your new found concern for your youngest pup, but a letter would have sufficed. Did we not agree that you would notfiy me of your visits?”

The Dowager’s mouth twists as though she’s bitten into something sour. 

Seungcheol waits with perfect patience, not making a single sound. After a moment, the Dowager squares herself and looks up, meeting Seungcheol’s gaze directly.

“I did not anticipate that a visit would be necessary until recently. And I should have no call to wait for an invitation to return to Daegu park. Or have you forgotten that I am your mother and this is my home?”

Seungcheol laughs at that, loud and overly hearty. “Certainly not. But forward notice makes these visits of yours run so much more smoothly. As it stands, the household is not prepared to cater to your excessive demands, and you know as well as I that the servants hardly stand your prescence at the best of times.”

The Dowagers’s answering look is darkly disapproving. “You would do well to mind your tongue Seungcheol. If your father was alive—”

“But he _isn’t_.” Seungcheol interjects in clipped tones, “I’m in charge now, and when you wish to visit _my_ estate again, you _will_ ask for my permission.”

They are both silent for a time.

A stalemate stands unyielding between them, an absolute agony of tension filling the air that Jihoon does not know where to look. Finally the Dowager rises from her seat, collecting her skirt tails in a flurry of flustered anger.

“You should know that I do not agree with what you are planning Seungcheol. I may not possess the power to stop you, but I will not give you my blessing in this matter.”

Seungcheol’s crooked smile is both conspiratorial and a bit rueful, too.

“And you should now that I do not care for it.”

The Dowager narrows her eyes at him briefly, stony-faced and furious, her jaw clenched unhappily. She does not say a word as she gathers her belongings and she heads towards the door, though she makes brief eye contact with Jihoon before storming out.

After she leaves, Seungcheol claims the seat next to his and remains silent at his side for a long time.

When he finally speaks, he sounds as calm and earnest as ever.

“I’m sorry you had to witness that Jihoon, and that you had to suffer through her company. She’s a ghastly woman, I know, I’ve had to tolerate her my entire life. But if it’s any consolation, I truly doubt she will be returning, and I can only apologise if she has said anything to offend you in my absence.”

Shaking his head, Jihoon reaches over to cover Seungcheol’s hand and squeezes reassuringly. “You needn’t apologise on anyone’s behalf Seungcheol. I am just glad that you are home again. I have—” His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth and he has to stop and clear his throat. “ _We_ have missed you.”

There is a long second when Seungcheol’s face turns - sad? Jihoon can’t quite read it, and then it’s gone, replaced by a casual smirk. 

“I have missed you too.”

* * *

"Jihoon?"

At the sound of his name, said in a very small voice, Jihoon wakes, surprised to find Hansol standing next to his bed. His fingers are tangled in the hem of his sleep clothes.

Jihoon blinks, running a hand over his face, pushing his hair out of his eyes

“Hansol?” He says, frowning as he takes in his serious expression. “What is the matter pet?”

Hansol glares at the window over Jihoon's shoulder, his little eyebrows drawn together, and Jihoon turns, half-expecting to see Satan himself hovering outside the window. But there is no one, just the night sky lighting up with a brilliant white flash.

Hansol squeezes his eyes shut and claps his hands over his ears not a second later, shoulders trembling as the air shudders with the groan of thunder that follows. His eyes are wet when he opens them again, and his chest is heaving.

“It’s loud outside my window.” He croaks as he drops his gaze, his little toes curling and uncurling against the hardwood floor. “I’m frightened, and Seungcheol is not in his room.”

“Oh, darling, it’s just a storm. Come.” Jihoon says with a smile, shifting to make room for him. 

Hansol leaps in immediately, curling up against his side, clutching at his shirt. Jihoon wonders who he would have gone to had he not been here to comfort him. As Seungcheol is often gone for weeks at a time, possibly no one. The thought of him weathering his discomfort alone in this big house is so heart-wrenching Jihoon cradles him closer, tilting his head so his cheek is resting against the top of Hansol's head.

Hansol hugs back, holding on with all his strength. “I’m sorry.” He sniffles against Jihoon's shoulder.

Jihoon strokes a soothing hand over his hair. "There’s nothing to be sorry about pet. I was once afraid of thunderstorms too, you know. That is, until I heard the story of the _Thunder King_.”

“Thunder King?” Hansol whispers.

“Yes.” Jihoon hugs him closer, rubbing a hand over his back. “Would you like to hear it?”

* * *

Hansol is much more amendable to return to his room once Jihoon shares the story, provided that Jihoon accompanies him of course.

He is often insistent about being read a story or three before allowing himself to be tucked in, but tonight he asks for a _song_ instead. Jihoon sings a soothing lullaby for him, a favourite from his childhood, watching as Hansol’s eyes drift shut, little by little.

Once he finishes, and is certain Hansol is fast asleep, he presses a kiss to the boy’s head and gathers himself to leave. Blowing out the candle on the bedside table, he startles at finding Seungcheol standing in the open doorway, watching them with a soft expression.

The Alpha is more dressed down than usual, waistcoat unbuttoned and shirt untucked. He still wears his boots and breeches, and Jihoon suspects he tried to turn in, only to re-light the candles in his restlessness when the storm began. Jihoon blushes when he realises with only a nightgown pulled over his sleepshirt, he’s hardly in a presentable state himself. He hadn’t even managed to scrape his hair back into its customary braid when he agreed to accompany Hansol down the hall, and his locks tumble loosely over his shoulders.

He pulls them back away from his face as he slips out of the room but gets no further than pulling the door shut behind him before Seungcheol is crowding him against it.

“You are very kind and tender with him.” He observes, faint hint of a smile curling at the corner of his mouth. “I am ashamed to say I find myself growing envious, and I have never been envious of my little brother before. What must I do to have you singing so sweet and soft in my ear? Must I be afraid of storms _too_?”

Jihoon's heart thumps and he laughs, a little giddy with it. “I do not think you could be _excused_ for being afraid of thunderstorms Seungcheol. Surely you are far to brave and noble to ever claim a fear so unbecoming of an Alpha.”

Seungcheol's smile grows more distinct.

“I would happily pretend. If that’s what it will take to earn your attentions.” He breathes, hand cupping Jihoon’s cheek, soft and fleeting.

Heat suffuses Jihoon's face at the fondness in that look. God, surely—

Surely Seungcheol wouldn't look at him that way if he didn't feel this, too.

Jihoon drops his gaze, blushing. Ridiculous that he can't look Seungcheol in the eye while he says his piece, but it's too much. His chest feels tight and hot, and he _can't_. Not if he's going to say any of this out loud.

“You needn’t pretend Seungcheol,” He forces the words out past a lump in his throat “I would happily do anything for you.”

Seungcheol's fingers curl beneath his chin and tilt his head back, and the colour in Jihoon’s cheeks climbs higher as the pad of his thumb rests over his bottom lip. “Will you join me in my study then? It’s not the most elegant room in the house, but... we can be afforded some privacy there.”

They’ll just be spending time together, something they do a dozen times every day; it shouldn’t feel odd, Jihoon thinks, but the moment Seungcheol says it, it feels like something big. Some sort of turning point.

Jihoon swallows and looks everywhere but at Seungcheol.

“Alright. But—I—I should change first.”

Seungcheol makes a dismissive noise. “For my sake?” He shakes his head, then takes Jihoon’s hand and starts leading him towards the staircase. “Please Jihoon, let’s not stand on ceremony with each other.”

* * *

Seungcheol’s private study is situated in the far end of the manor—a space Jihoon sees rarely.

It’s a corner room, smaller than Jihoon expects, but lushly appointed with plenty of soft chairs, thick Persian rugs and cluttered with mounted animals and strange knickknacks from far-off lands. A large glass armoire stretches across one wall, housing all manner of family heirlooms and Jihoon gapes at the variety of swords, pistols, and ornamental daggers on display, all inscribed with the Choi Family crest.

Decorum says the door should remain open, but he is somehow not surprised when Seungcheol closes it and sets the latch. Privacy is hard to come by for a man in Seungcheol’s position, even though Jihoon doubts there’s anyone still awake at this hour to disturb them.

There is a small fire lit in in the hearth, still a necessity in a large house such as this during the cooler summer nights, and Jihoon basks in its warmth as he perches on his seat. Seungcheol himself opts for the far more comfortable looking chaise lounge by the window, reclining indolently once he pours them each a glass of wine.

“Do you like poetry?” He asks, gesturing at the stack of books on his desk. “I’ve recently become quite keen on it.”

Jihoon takes a sip of his wine—or maybe "gulp" would be a more accurate word.

“I cannot claim to know any off by heart, but I read it well enough.” He answers after he swallows and sets down the cup. Casting a sidelong glance Seungcheol's way, he adds, “Do _you_ have a preference?”

Seungcheol shrugs, elegant and unconcerned. “You may choose the script at your leisure. My only preference is the sound of your voice.”

Jihoon rolls his eyes deliberately, but he is biting down on his cheek to keep from smiling as he starts to flick through the books on offer. Choosing one from the top of the pile, he retakes his seat and turns to Seungcheol, only to find that he has removed his jacket and is loosening the slack of his cravat until its points hang carelessly over his collarbones.

Jihoon swallows thickly at the sight and quickly turns back to the book in his hands.

Seungcheol has seen fit to dispense with formalities and remove his jacket—if he sees fit to remove his shirt as well Jihoon will have to put his foot down. It’s one thing to recite sweet poetry to one another, it’s something else entirely to recite sweet poetry to one another in the _nude_.

Bad enough they've sequestered themselves in the Duke’s private study—a transgression that can be easily enough explained—but for any hint of impropriety or undress to accompany their discovery would be disastrous.

Jihoon can already _hear_ the servants gossiping about it tomorrow morning. He should probably enjoy the moment while he can.

Licking his finger to delicately turn the page, he begins reciting the words softly.

* * *

The hour that follows is pleasant, and casual and entirely _too_ comfortable.

Jihoon is starting to feel at ease in a way he usually wouldn’t allow himself to be, and he blames it on the wine. Even though he’s only had a single glass it feels rich and warm in Jihoon's stomach, and while it dulls some senses, it seems to heighten others. His hearing for one—in the small chinks of silence as he turns the pages, he can hear the in-and-out of Seungcheol's breath—and his sense of touch for another.

Not that Seungcheol is touching him, of course.

The Alpha is still in his seat, an appropriate distance away. But his _gaze_ ……Jihoon can feel that everywhere.

Jihoon has never considered himself to be particularly alluring—he’s always been too short, too plain, too slight to inspire desire in anyone’s heart, especially not someone as magnificent as Seungcheol. But the way Seungcheol _looks_ at him as he reads—affectionate, awed, captivated—makes him feel like a very special flower indeed.

 _He must just really like this book_ —Jihoon tells himself, until between one line and the next, he glances up and his voice catches in his throat.

Seungcheol is sprawled comfortably in his seat, arms resting loosely over the armrest. Perfectly at ease it would seem, except for the colour high in his cheeks, the look of possessive intensity glinting in his eyes and the unmistakable bulge tenting his breeches.

The sight makes Jihoon's heart beat faster, even as he tries to corral his attention back to the book in his hand, trying to pick up where he left off.

It’s a lost cause.

He can’t remember the last sentence he read out loud, can’t focus when his gaze keeps threatening to rove, can’t think with the sight of Seungcheol’s thick cock so perfectly displayed beneath tightly fitted breeches, can’t _breathe_ when the scent of Alpha suddenly fills the air.

Jihoon hadn’t known until this second that he knew Seungcheol’s smell, but it surrounds him now, heady and musky and bold, and the moment it hits his nostrils, he is instantly hit with the strongest wave of arousal he’s ever experienced. It’s so fierce his hands tremble, and he drops the book in his hand, suddenly _wet_.

A new silence settles between them, unexpected and not entirely comfortable.

Jihoon’s breath seems stuck in his chest like a piece of tar, and perhaps he is only imagining it but Seungcheol’s breathing seems louder too. When he finally lifts his head to meet the Alpha’s gaze, something predatory passes through Seungcheol’s eyes, a tip of a shadow, and in one fluid motion he stands from his seat and walks over to the divan.

Jihoon does not shrink at his approach, he does not, but he can’t stop his body’s imperceptible tremble as Seungcheol stops behind him. There are fingers threading through the curtain of his hair, just for a moment, then Seungcheol leans over him, a solid wall of muscle, and breathes him in.

“God—your _scent_. There’s nothing like it.” He says in a low, deep voice, barely a release of air between his teeth.

Jihoon is out of his seat and across the room in an instant, stopping only when his back hits the desk. He can feel Seungcheol’s familiar heat coursing through body, though the Alpha has yet to lay a finger on him.

“You—you can smell me?” He whispers, heart knocking against his ribs.

Seungcheol grin flashes in the dark; he looks like nothing more than a large predator that has sighted his prey. “Of course. This whole room smells of you.”

Jihoon stares at him, barely comprehending. “B-but…how?”

Taking a step closer, Seungcheol catches his lower lip between his teeth uncertainly.

“You mean, you didn’t do it deliberately?”

It's with jarring clarity that Jihoon realises what Seungcheol means, and reality descends over his fogged mind like a thunderclap.

He has released his scent unknowingly. Released it _first_ , in fact; it’s unmistakable now that he’s searching for it; his own sweeter, flowery undertones are faint, but still perceptible beneath Seungcheol’s headier musk.

His heart sticks in his throat when he thinks about the repercussions his actions will have–even involuntarily, baiting an Alpha who’s expressed no interest in him is an inexcusable offence; his good character, his reputation, his entire _life_ could be ripped apart with a single word from Seungcheol.

Guilt crashes over him, and he pulls his nightgown tightly around himself, mortified beyond belief. Before he can take a step towards the door, desperate hands are grabbing for him.

“Please—please don’t leave.” Seungcheol's hands are shaking, but they're also determined. Twisting firmly in the fabric of Jihoon’s nightgown. Keeping him close.

To his horror, Jihoon feels himself responding; his cock hardens under his clothes, pressing insistently against Seungcheol’s groin when the Alpha pulls their bodies flush together.

“I—I did not mean to. I hadn’t realised I’d released it. I’m, I’m s-sorry.” Jihoon whispers, guiltily aware that he still hasn't _stopped_ releasing his scent either. That he is apologizing for something he has not actually _stopped doing_ , and he's a hypocrite of the worst sort for it.

He does not get to have this. He is not allowed to lure Seungcheol in like this.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.”

Seungcheol lowers his head and runs his nose along Jihoon’s hairline, inhaling deeply.

“There’s nothing to apologise for.” He whispers tenderly, bringing his hand to tangle through Jihoon’s hair, tilting his head back to nuzzle his throat all the more intimately. “Not if you feel the same way I feel about you.”

Jihoon tenses, grip tightening reflexively where his fingers are still curled around his nightgown. He stares up into Seungcheol face, making no effort at all to mask the raw tumult of feeling in his expression.

“W-what?”

Seungcheol's expression eases back from its wild hunger, something softer rising instead. His fingers loosen, too, and he shifts his grip. Presses a palm flat to Jihoon's chest directly over his heart. Slides the other arm down to curl around his waist as though to tuck him close. He leans down, nuzzling beneath Jihoon’s jaw, nosing where his scent must be strongest.

“You are not the first Omega to invite me—not the first by far, but I resisted them all without effort,” He murmurs the words against Jihoon's speeding pulse. “I’m not a weak man Jihoon, but _god_ I am weak for you.”

Jihoon shivers and bites back a moan. His head spins, from the wine, Seungcheol’s scent and from this new information.

There’s a strange fire crinkling all his nerve endings now, a growing desperation and want centred between his thighs. It’s embarrassing how little control he has over it, but he’s too dizzy with desire and high from pheromones to control the way his body is leaking, the way his muscles are already quivering, working automatically, trying to contract to draw in an intrusion that isn’t there. _Seungcheol._

He needs Seungcheol _inside of him_ , and now.

“Hnn—fuck yes,” Seungcheol’s voice rumbles in his ear, and Jihoon vocalizes an ineloquent sound upon realising he has spoken his desires out loud too. He closes his eyes so that he cannot shame himself further, and hears a wet gasp — his own, he realizes, his own — when Seungcheol tilts his chin up and kisses him, hard.

For a moment it’s so perfect Jihoon can’t do anything but let it happen; Seungcheol’s mouth on his is a starburst of sensation and awareness, a new, blinding, white-hot locus of fire inside of him. It sparks a sudden primal rush of need inside of him to _submit_ , to _be taken over by this_ , to let Seungcheol do whatever he wants with his body, to let the Alpha in him master Jihoon and take control and mate him until he’s been subdued and pinned down and tied and taken and _owned_.

The feeling is so strong Jihoon murmurs something incoherent against Seungcheol’s lips, a helpless expression of need before his instinct takes over and he finally, _finally_ kisses back.

He reaches for Seungcheol. No reticence, no hesitation, no guilt holding him back now. He moans, a helpless sound muffled by the kiss, and winds one arm around Seungcheol's neck. The other arm has nowhere to go, trapped as it is between their bodies, but Jihoon doesn't mind. He presses his palm over Seungcheol's chest, savouring the rapid heartbeat beneath his hand.

He opens readily for the first tentative touch of Seungcheol's tongue. His lips part, and oh, this is _even better_. A deeper kiss, an exploration both curious and possessive, as Seungcheol's arms tighten around him.

The inferno in Jihoon's blood burns brighter with every touch. He gasps and shudders, tensing and then relaxing with relief, his whole body saturated in heat. He keeps his eyes shut, barely noticing the hard edge of the table Seungcheol pushes him against, papers crumpling under the hand he hurriedly puts out for balance.

“God, you’re beautiful.” Seungcheol says between rough, deep kisses, “So fucking beautiful.”

His hands are restless, wandering selfishly—stroking along Jihoon's spine, curling at his hip, tangling in his hair—almost frantic with the need to touch everywhere at once.

Jihoon gasps as the hand on his thigh quests higher, rucking up his night shirt, exposing his leaking cock to the air, then mewls as Seungcheol hoists him up to sit on the edge of the desk, as their bodies press more intimately together.

The chafe of his cock against Seungcheol’s breeches is uncomfortable, dry friction that should not delight him the way it does. But then, Jihoon has long since given up on argument like _should_ and _can't_ where Seungcheol is concerned. He merely splays his legs where he sits, parts them wider to allow Seungcheol closer.

Seungcheol exhales hard and _moves_ , accepting the offer with eager desperation. He curls a firm hand around the line of Jihoon's hip and snaps his hips forward with determination, grinding his clothed cock against Jihoon’s in the overheated space between them.

Jihoon feels his bones turn to liquid honey from Seungcheol’s assault on his senses. He abandons all thoughts of morality and restraint, losing himself instead in the feeling of Seungcheol's body, strong and hard against him.

“Can I—”, Seungcheol whispers, his breath hot and trembling against Jihoon's cheek. “I need to—”

A quiet knock at the door startles him into frozen silence—Jihoon’s head snaps up so fast his neck twinges.

It seems an eternity before Seungcheol loosens his hold and eases back, putting a modicum of space between them, and when Jihoon peers directly down into Seungcheol's face, he finds a dazed expression staring back at him. The Alpha’s eyes, normally so guarded and difficult to decipher, are impossibly wide—two expressive bright spots reflecting firelight from the hearth.

The knock sounds a second time before Seungcheol shakes himself and lets his hands fall away from Jihoon’s body.

They don’t separate with haste. They take care in establishing a safe distance. But that distance, once established, is definite, unyielding, inviolable.

Jihoon is breathing too hard as he tugs his nightshirt down. And though he is uncomfortably warm, he pulls the dressing gown back over his shoulders, painfully aware of the stiff arousal still straining between his legs.

Seungcheol moves for the door without doing anything to manage his appearance, his footsteps mostly steady though his shoulders tense with anticipation.

Raising the latch, he opens the door a sliver. Voices murmur softly, a quiet exchange that Jihoon can't quite hear, and the door opens a little wider. Far enough for Seungcheol to accept a small sheaf of papers handed to him from the hall. There’s a mutter of goodnight, a quiet click, the heavy fall of the door latch back into place.

For several seconds Seungcheol stands perfectly still. One hand on the latch, face turned toward the door, fingers curled tight enough to crease the papers in his grip.

It’s clear he is angry—perhaps that they have been disturbed, or even perhaps because they came so close to discovery. Jihoon didn’t catch a glimpse of whoever is was on the other side of that door, and whoever it was did not see _him_ —but it does not negate the fact that this is all incredibly foolish.

Rutting against each other like mindless animals is something they shouldn’t be doing here. It’s possibly something they shouldn’t be doing at _all_. But before Jihoon can voice the suggestion they take this somewhere else, somewhere they _won’t_ be disturbed, Seungcheol moves.

All stiffness loosens from his limbs as he turns his back to the door. He’s holding the papers in both hands now, but paying them no mind as his gaze finds Jihoon across the room.

"Thank you for your company tonight Jihoon,” He says, the blush along his cheeks is so pronounced Jihoon can discern it clearly in the flickering candlelight. Another moment passes, before he takes a halting step back, averting his gaze as he opens the door. “But it’s late—you should return to your room.”

The disappointed mewl escapes despite Jihoon's best efforts to contain it, and he feels his face warm with embarrassment at having expressed such a sentiment out aloud. He pulls the dressing gown around himself tighter, guilt and shame rising anew in his chest and he heads for the door.

Every step is torment, but he forces himself to leave the room calmly, and when the door closes quietly behind him, he slumps against it, lips burning still from Seungcheol’s kisses.

After a moment, he turns his head and finds Wonwoo watching him from the shadowed hallway.

He looks annoyed to find him leaving Seungcheol’s study, but then he rights his expression to bland indifference.

“Are you lost, Mr Lee?”

Jihoon resists the urge to crack a smile; something tells him it would not ease the tension settling between them. “No, I couldn’t sleep with the storm raging outside, so I was just keeping his Grace company for a while.” He steps away from the door, keeping his nightgown carefully wrapped around himself. “But it’s over now—so I will just be heading up to my room.”

Wonwoo hums, a noncommittal sound. But as he brushes past him, down the hall, he murmurs a quiet parting shot.

“I thought you were smarter than this.”

* * *

Unsurprisingly, Seungcheol is not himself at breakfast the next day.

He engages very little with Hansol’s enthusiastic chatter, though is sure to offer him plenty of warm, reassuring smiles. Jihoon longs for one of those smiles to be directed his way, but Seungcheol is careful not to look at him too long. He speaks to Jihoon kindly of course, attempts to joke as he did before, but there’s a dull effort to it that makes Jihoon stumble over his answers, caught flat-footed, again and again.

This new awkwardness gives Jihoon ample time to observe Seungcheol closer.

He looks so tired, with a deep red crease on his stubbled cheek from the pillow, from where he must have been tossing and turning all night, and his hair is in such dreadful array that Jihoon longs to comb it. Before he can succumb to the urge however, Seungcheol excuses himself from the table, having hardly touched his food at all.

Jihoon does not see him for the remainder of the day and feels lost in the absence of his company. He has his afternoon tea and dinner with Hansol as normal, who becomes more subdued and thoughtful as the day progresses. Even though he is young, he can obviously sense something is wrong with his brother and keeps asking after him.

Jihoon doesn’t know what to tell him beyond ‘ _I’m sure he’s just busy’_ and _‘Maybe he didn’t sleep too well’_ , but when Seungcheol’s blatant avoidance persists into a third day, those excuses begin to sound flat.

He wonders if he should say something, or perhaps _do_ something instead of waiting for Seungcheol’s return like a discarded shoe.

But the opportunity to speak with Seungcheol privately does not appear, and any hope of future privacy is curtailed by Mr Jeon’s announcement at breakfast that there will be guests arriving within the week.

Jihoon doesn’t think it right to burden Seungcheol with inquiries when he has guests to prepare for, even if the arrangement seems rather last minute. But apparently a word-of-mouth invitation for a quiet get-together to celebrate Seungcheol’s 27th birthday has been passed on from person to person, so now every friend, cousin and wealthy business associate Seungcheol _knows_ are coming from all over the country for an entire _week_ of celebrations.

The prospect of spending an elongated stretch of time among the froggy-faced elite and their fawning sycophants, not to mention the debutantes and their mamas prowling the marriage mart, chills Jihoon down to his bones. However, Seungcheol does make a reappearance with the news, and seems to return to his normal self the day the guests arrive.

And that, for Jihoon, is enough cause for celebration.

* * *

The arrival of the new guests does not bring an end to routine however, and at 4 o’clock on the dot, Jihoon sits Hansol down in the library for his usual afternoon lessons. Naturally the boy kicks up a fuss at the thought of learning when there are so many new _faces_ around to pull pranks on, but Seungcheol assures him it will be his final lesson of the week, and that he will be permitted a short break from his routine to join in the festivities.

The promise has Hansol understandably distracted, but he remains seated and in good spirits until the lesson ends, bounding out of the room at the first chime of the dinner bell.

Laughing, Jihoon packs away his books and follows him out to prepare for dinner.

There is quite the crowd to be fed today, and he is uncertain where he will be seated, but that concern is promptly overshadowed when Mr Jeon stops him outside the library and informs him he has acquired a smear of _dirt_ on his cravat.

“It is imperative you don a fresh one before you join his Grace’s guests for dinner.” Mr Jeon says, in his usual chiding tone.

Jihoon nods, smiling sheepishly.

He can’t bring himself to explain to Mr Jeon that he does not _have_ a secret wealth of cravats, only two, and his other cravat has a sizable rip from a jaunt with Clip-Clop across the fields. He has been meaning to mend for some time, though he suspects that even his small, neat stitches will not be able to disguise its misuse.

Nevertheless, it will have to do, and so he quickly returns to his room to change and freshen up.

He is attempting to knot his cravat in Mr Jeon’s perfect, intimidating Mathematical fashion when there is a knock on the door. Jihoon quickly dons his dinner jacket to answer it, only to find a footman there, a letter in hand.

“From His grace.” The man says, bowing politely as he leaves.

Jihoon wastes no time peeling back the wax seal, revealing a single piece of fine parchment, neatly folded. The missive is written in a practiced but not especially elegant hand, and is is still warm to the touch, as if it has been sealed not long ago.

Thinking of what Seungcheol might wish to write to him so urgently and secretly makes Jihoon’s stomach flip over, and he skims over the note eagerly, only for his hopes to splinter a second later.

Jihoon sits on the edge of the bed, feeling his heart drop to the bottom of his lungs like its strings have been cut. He thought he was prepared for anything, thought he was familiar with the taste of rejection, and yet, nothing could have prepared his for _this_ —this vicious pain that tears through his lungs and threatens to shred his heart to pieces.

He feels an utter _fool_ not to have seen it coming; the rules of this game are well known after all, and the die had been cast long ago, long before he even _met_ Seungcheol.

He doesn’t belong.

He’ll _never_ belong.

The second knock on the door prompts the arrival of his meal, and Jihoon steps aside as a servant rushes in with a tray and sets it on the small table in the corner. After they depart, Jihoon shrugs off his dinner jacket and sets it aside before taking a seat. From downstairs, a low murmur of a small crowd can be heard; glasses clinking and joyous laughter floating up from the open balcony doors. Revelry continues in his absence, and for the first time in a long time he finds himself thinking— _perhaps because of it._

* * *

The following day, Jihoon is careful to avoid both Seungcheol and his guests as best he can.

He still has his usual morning walk around the gardens of course, but he opts to take his breakfast downstairs with the servants. Even though breakfast is a casual affair upstairs and his presence as governess wouldn’t be out of place, Seungcheol’s letter has made him feel distinctly unwelcomed in his company. He has more in common with the help than any of Seungcheol’s fine friends anyway, and although the maids and the footmen are suspicious of his sudden appearance at their table, he works hard to make them laugh. 

He cannot avoid Seungcheol for long however, not when Hansol so enthusiastically seeks him out. He catches him in the library, and pleads with him to join the party’s planned excursion that day, and his gaze is so _beseeching_ that Jihoon cannot with good conscience turn him down. That is until, Seungcheol enters the room shortly after, weary and impatient.

“Jihoon is not well Hansol, you must allow him to rest. Now, come along.” He huffs, ushering Hansol away before Jihoon can respond.

_Not well?_

Jihoon doesn’t know what to make of such a lie. If Seungcheol doesn’t want his presence amongst his friends, he only need _ask_. He doesn’t need to make excuses to exclude him. Jihoon is, after all, well used to being excluded from fine company. The lie is completely unnecessary.

Jihoon simmers on that thought all day, and by dinner, though no letter is delivered, he decides to have his meal in his room once more. He will not embarrass Seungcheol by appearing at his table, he will not let Seungcheol see that he has hurt him with his indifference.

Despite how lowly he may be regarded, _here_ , in a Duke’s home, he still has his pride.

* * *

A star has no reason to seek out the celestial body orbiting it, and so when there is a knock on Jihoon’s bedroom door shortly after he retires for the night, he’s stunned to find Seungcheol there when he opens it.

They stare at each other for a moment, Seungcheol’s lips still parted slightly, his breathing shallow. He doesn’t look distinctly irritated, but the candle holder affixed beside the door casts its flickering beam upon his face and Jihoon can see the worry lines on his brow, either from lack of sleep or some feeling altogether more intense.

“I apologize for the late hour. But I—well you weren’t at dinner tonight, and I wanted to see how you were feeling?”

Jihoon fidgets inside his nightshirt, angry that Seungcheol could parade such a lie in front of his face, then eagerly believe his own lie. There’s no sense in calling him out, so Jihoon affects a small smile and says with as much disaffection as he can manage, “I am feeling very well, thank you.”

Seungcheol breathes out a heavy sigh. “I am glad to hear it. Does this mean you will be fit and able to join our hunting party tomorrow?”

Jihoon does not allow his confusion to make him hesitate. “I did not intend to, no.”

The way Seungcheol’s lashes droop with ill-concealed disappointment leaves Jihoon bewildered. He cannot reconcile the contradiction between a man who dismisses his company one minute, then sulks when he cannot have it.

When Seungcheol finally speaks, his tone is soft and measured. “But perhaps you will join us for Dinner? And the dance the day after tomorrow? Hansol tells me you enjoy dancing. You—you do enjoy it, don’t you?”

Jihoon _does_ take great pleasure in dancing and immediately brightens up at the suggestion. He fancies himself an excellent dancer, and is usually a popular choice for partner amongst the higher ranking guests, who know that he will guide them gracefully without pressing for a deeper acquaintance and causing scandal. But the fashion expected at such an event—this is another arena in which he cannot hope to win.

Undoubtably he would stick out like a sore thumb.

“I have not attended a dance in quite some time. I fear I have not brought suitable wear for such a grand occasion.”

Desperation clouds Seungcheol's expression and he steps directly into Jihoon's space. “It will not be grand, I assure you. It will be a modest affair, many are expected to come and if it allays your worries, I have never insisted upon a formal dress code at such events.”

Jihoon feels the stiffness slowly fade from his shoulders, and yet he wouldn’t have traded the tension that had been kneading them a moment earlier for the heavy weight that now settles over them.

Now, he has no good excuse not to attend.

“Thank you. You are most kind to invite me.” he says, managing to sound sombre and sincere.

A pressing silence falls between them for a moment, and then Seungcheol steps away from the door.

“It’s getting late, and I have kept you from your rest long enough. I bid you a Good night.” With each word he speaks, he slips farther away, becoming more distant—a star returning to its rightful place.

Jihoon watches his retreating back until he disappears in the darkness of the hallway, before murmuring to himself, “Good night.”

* * *

Jihoon takes Hansol into town on the morning of the hunt. As neither of them will be participating, he sees no sense in leaving the poor boy there to watch longingly from the window for the guests to return. And Hansol seems to much prefer his company anyway, having grown restless amongst the wealthy men and women who still strongly believe in the tradition that children should be _seen_ , not _heard_.

They stroll down the main promenade at a leisurely pace, watching the ships and marvelling at the well-heeled ladies and gentlemen who overtake them on their beautiful barouches and smart curricles.

Jihoon doesn’t intend to step into any of the shops, but Hansol drags him to one with an elaborately decorated storefront, filled with strangely decorated fans, brightly patterned fabrics and one-of-a-kind antiquities. Jihoon’s attention is immediately drawn to the finely tailored suit in the centre of the display: a dark black velvet dinner jacket, with an impeccable waistcoat of pale blue silk that has a pattern of flowers embroidered in a subtly shimmering thread.

It’s a unique piece, and not merely a sample design judging by the sign in the window, but a fitted on purchase suit, ready to be bought and adjusted upon the buyers request. It wouldn’t take too many alterations to fit his frame, and would flatter him far more than his current attire; a jacket a few seasons out of date, and a pale grey waistcoat cut badly for his slim build. 

It _would_ cost him a pretty penny though.

“You should get it for the dance.” Hansol pipes up, having noticed Jihoon’s lingering gaze on the piece.

Jihoon considers the suit in the window for a moment, then deflates. “No, I—I can’t.” He cuts himself off before adding ‘afford it.’ It wouldn’t be true anyway, because his governess salary is very generous indeed and he has managed to save up quite a bit.

But it would be pointless really, wasting what little money he has on an unbecoming desire to be well thought of.

Had it been a week ago he would have thought differently. A week ago, he would have parted with the money without a second thought. Would have primped himself up for such an occasion and delighted in the experience. But a week is long enough for a fantasy to sour on him, and it has become abundantly clear that Seungcheol would not spare him a second glance with so many finer prospects in attendance.

Entertaining such thoughts as a new suit is therefore entirely without merit.

* * *

The dinner guests are, as a whole, not a friendly or loquacious lot. When Seungcheol introduces him, they look at Jihoon with inquiring gazes and a scarcity of greetings. He knows he is being sized up, measured, and judged, and he puts on his best smile in response to it, for if they wish to judge him, then he can be polite enough to give them nothing _to_ judge.

Seungcheol throws him a brilliant smile as dinner is called and they proceed into the dining room. But as host, customs dictates he takes his seat at head of the table, so Jihoon waits until all the other guests have been seated before claiming the last seat near the end. 

The man seated to his left is a Seungcheol’s cousin—Viscount something or other. Jihoon doesn’t bother remembering anything beyond his title because the man clearly doesn’t want to be engaged in conversation, pointedly ignoring Jihoon throughout the entire meal. The tall man to his right is a business partner and an heir in his own right. He introduces himself as Mingyu and is much more pleasant to converse with, though he is still the sort of expensive gentleman who would never spare Jihoon a glance if they had first crossed each other’s paths on the Street, or anywhere where the sunlight peels away shadow and shines brass over Jihoon’s roughness and low origins.

As the meal progresses Jihoon listens through several of the guest’s explanations of their scattered town homes, seaside holidays, riding exploits, and other anecdotes that reveal their elevated status. Jihoon nods along, keeping tales of wild nights with his reading books to himself.

Even at his most sociable Jihoon prefers to let others do the talking, and tonight he is too distracted to uphold his end of the company's mild discourse.

The incongruity of his presence becomes even more woefully obvious when the men retire to the games room after dinner, and everyone gives him a wide berth.

Jihoon can’t say he blames them; he has nothing to offer the guests milling around him, even as a good listener. He can’t charm anyone with his wit if he won’t speak up, and he can’t enthuse anyone with his passion for music or art or teaching when the only topics available circle around _wealth_. Conversations about politics and land rights are not topics he’s versed in, and it’s likely nobody would care about his opinion anyway. He has nothing to give. Nothing but his unwanted presence, nothing that Seungcheol has not already taken and trampled under the heels of his stylish black boots.

So he sits in a chair in the far corner of the room as a handful of guests gather around the billiards table. Seungcheol isn’t among them, though he hovers over a clutch of men as they play a heated round of faro at the table.

 _Why am I here_ , Jihoon thinks, _Why am I here when he won’t even look at me?_

Each time their eyes meet, Jihoon feels like his whole being is leaning towards Seungcheol, every line in his body murmuring embarrassing truths. _I adore you. You are the only thing on this Earth that I believe in; please let it be enough._

But Seungcheol never keeps his gaze long enough to _see_ , his attention always draws away by more important matters. More important people.

By the third game, Jihoon has grown tired of being ignored and politely excuses himself. He’d much rather be ignored from the comfort of his room than sit through this pointless social exercise. But he gets no further than the hallway, before he hears the game room door open behind him and a hand comes to rest on his shoulder, burning like a brand against his chilled skin.

Before he can protest, Seungcheol takes him by the elbow and guides him to the unused drawing-room down the hallway, where the ladies have already vacated for a spot of pianoforte. His grip is as strong as Jihoon remembers from that night, and Jihoon resists the urge to mewl as Seungcheol closes the door behind them and crowds him against the wall.

“What’s wrong?” He says, locking him with careful eyes.

“Pardon?” Jihoon says, trying to keep the tension running through him from showing in his voice and posture.

Seungcheol looks calm, but Jihoon can hear an edge of concern to his words. “You hardly said a word over dinner, and now you are retiring early. _Again_. Is something wrong? Are you unwell?”

Jihoon briefly debates the merits of being honest with him, of saying _‘Why have you invited me if you won’t even speak to me with your friends there?’_ But perhaps it is for the best to lie. Better by far that Seungcheol thinks of Jihoon’s absence as mere exhaustion, fatigue, than for him to know the truth and pity Jihoon for it.

“Yes, I must admit I am feeling a little off.”

In the span of a heartbeat Seungcheol's posture eases, his expression caught between relief and horror.

“I will send for the doctor at once.”

Jihoon sucks in a breath between his teeth. Half of him wants to push Seungcheol away, while the other half wants to bury his face in Seungcheol’s strong shoulder and cry. He takes a step back instead, shaking his head.

“No. I—I think a night’s rest should be sufficient. I’m probably just tired.”

Seungcheol rubs his knuckles against the soft satin of his waistcoat, thoughtful. “I understand. I’m finding this week rather exhausting myself. This isn’t exactly what I had in mind when I agreed to celebrate my Birthday. Nor my idea of fun, if I’m being honest. But my position forces to me to hold these events, and invite people I don’t particularly want to. But it’s expected of me, and I feel obligated to entertain my guests in a manner they see fit. You understand, don’t you?”

“Of course.” Jihoon says, absorbing this entirely reasonable explanation. “Your position is one of great social strain, I do not envy it.”

Seungcheol raises one hand to curl along Jihoon's cheek, holding his gaze steadily. “Perhaps tomorrow at the dance, you would allow me—”

“Seungcheol? Where did you disappear to?”

A raised voice on the other side of the door behind them brings them back to their surroundings at length. Seungcheol's hand falls away quickly as he turns towards the door, mouth pressed into a thin line, distinctly unhappy.

“I’m sorry, I must return to the guests.”

Jihoon draws a slow breath and offers a smile, “Goodnight.”

For just an instant, a broad hand presses to the small of his back. A grounding touch hidden in deep shadows, gone again all too soon, and Jihoon remembers why he usually avoids touching Seungcheol, even so much as brushing against him by accident; the cold always feels worse afterwards.

* * *

Jihoon does not have much to occupy him on the morning of the dance. So he climbs the highest staircase and finds a vantage point where he is not likely to be noticed, but where he can see the servants moving in and out, bringing freshly cut flowers and fine silken tablecloths.

It seems so much effort has gone into the preparations, and though Seungcheol assured him it would be a relaxed affair, Jihoon is beginning to regret not purchasing those finer garments he glimpsed in the shop’s window. Before he can begin contemplating what he _will_ wear, two of the guests from last night’s dinner pass by on the landing below.

“The Baron will be in attendance I hear, as well as the Marquis of Northfields, so yes, quite the turnout as expected.” Says the man with dark brown, shoulder length hair.

“Ah, good.” The taller of the two nods, maintaining a neutral expression. “I was beginning to worry after he introduced is to that _governess_ at dinner. Why Seungcheol insists on associating himself with the underbelly of society I will never understand.”

The brunette laughs unkindly, “Oh, there is _no_ association there, I assure you. Seungcheol merely pitied the man, and you must admit, he _was_ very pitiable.”

Face falling, Jihoon steps back from the bannister before they catch sight of him.

 _Pitiable_ —of course he should not expect to be held in higher regard, he _was_ pitiable. Pathetic even, to think he could attend such an event, even with an explicit invitation from the host.

Sloping off back to his room, he considers his next steps.

He cannot attend the dance, that is now a certainty. But he cannot resign himself to his room either without a reasonable excuse either.

He will have to leave the estate for the day, find somewhere to wait it all out and return when the guests leave.

There’s nothing else for it.

* * *

When the dance begins, which it does at seven o’clock, Jihoon is already sitting in a corner of _The Saracen’s Head_ , wondering if it would out of place to pull out his book and start reading.

He’d set out early, before the lunch bell, under the guise of meeting an old friend in town, because he couldn’t very well leave the second the guests appeared in all their finery; it would be rude, and even if he was not welcome, he would _not_ be rude. But he’s beginning to regret his eagerness to put Daegu Park behind him now.

This pitiful excuse for a tavern is not exactly the type of establishment he typically patronises—he is not handy with his fists, and he’s definitely not confident about holding his own against the sort of ruffians this place would likely offer—but he’d already explored what little distractions the town had to offer, and the tavern was the only establishment in town still open after dusk that permitted non-members.

So it was the most obvious choice, if not the wisest one. Though he’s still not sure Mr Jeon believed him when he gave his reasons for heading to town, but despite the shrewd expression he levelled Jihoon’s way, the man was simply too busy to question the integrity of his story. 

* * *

It’s past midnight when Jihoon finally returns to Daegu Park. The street is not quite empty, but it's quiet, and the sky glitters frigid black. So dark Jihoon has to borrow a lantern from the tavern to light his path out of town.

He expects to come across a few stragglers leaving the estate on the journey back to the house, but when he approaches the grounds, the house is strangely silent—bereft of the lights and sounds a dance would usually bring to the place.

The party must have ended earlier than he anticipated, and when he enters the house through the service entrance, he finds even the kitchen staff have retired for the night. There is only Wonwoo to be found, drinking tea beside a roaring fireplace in the housekeeper’s sitting room.

The door is closed to keep in the heat, rendering the room perfectly cosy against the outside chill. When Jihoon approaches to warm his hands by the fire, Wonwoo glances up, relief shining bright on his face.

“Ah, Jihoon, you’re back. I was—” He stops to place his nearly full teacup on the small table that sits between their stiff-backed chairs. “How was your evening?”

“Good.”

“And your friend?”

The question sounds casual, but the shrewd look in Wonwoo’s eye says he is well aware Jihoon’s ‘ _friend in town’_ is a fabrication. Nevertheless, Jihoon affects confidence as he answers.

“Is very well, thank you. It was good to see him again.” He waits a beat, but when Wonwoo doesn't say anything else, he asks, "What about your evening Mr Jeon?

Wonwoo remains silent—a thoughtful sort of quiet as he drinks his tea—and when Jihoon turns his head, he finds him peering into the fire. His profile is serious, his eyes distant. It's not really the fire he's seeing, Jihoon realizes. Wonwoo's gone somewhere else in his own head, and Jihoon very much doubts it has anything to do with him.

“Mr Jeon? How was the dance?"

Wonwoo blinks and sits back in his chair, as though startled from his thoughts.

The smile he gives Jihoon is real, if a little sad. "It—it did not go as well as I expected. His Grace was—"

“Was what?” Jihoon prompts after a long silence. 

He doesn't know why Wonwoo looks so sombre about it. More than just his usual stern aspect, he looks like something is troubling him.

His silence continues for several seconds as he stares into the hearth, before at last he lifts his head to look Jihoon directly in the eye.

“You know—before I took up my position as steward here, I was a Valet for a Marquis in the West. He was a good man, a kind and generous man, and he offered me a hand of friendship that in my naivety, I mistook for something _else_.” A pause, an uncomfortable inhale, and Wonwoo continues, “I was about your age at the time, and his rejection destroyed—”

“Why are you telling me this?” Jihoon interjects before the man can spill any more of his carefully locked up thoughts.

“ _Because_ —"Wonwoo says in the tone of someone treading with extreme caution, “I cannot help but feel there are _parallels_ in our stories.”.

“Well there _aren’t_.”

It's the most blunt Jihoon has ever been. For all that they’ve understood each other well from the very start of their acquaintance, it’s clear Wonwoo has misunderstood his intentions here. Is seeing something that isn’t happening.

“Despite what you may think of me, Mr Jeon, I am not naïve. In fact, I am so well experienced in accepting rejection now, that I can anticipate it. Which is why, when the season ends and my duty is fulfilled, I will be leaving for home.”

Wonwoo gives him a look that is at once exasperated and humouring. “And if his Grace intends to make you a permanent member of the household?”

The observation is spoken so casually. There's confidence in the pronouncement, and Jihoon realizes Wonwoo is not simply predicting what the Duke _might_ do. He already _knows_ what Seungcheol intends to do. They have already discussed it.

“You needn’t worry Mr Jeon. I won’t be accepting.” Jihoon counters.

Then executing a small bow, he turns and strides out of the room.

* * *

Jihoon feels utterly numb the next morning at breakfast, listening to the whispers of the servants all around him.

His buttered toast languishes limply on his plate as hears about how splendid the dance had begun, how magnificent the show of attendance and fashion on display, then…..how outraged the guests had been when suddenly, Seungcheol had turned around and called an end to the festivities not even an _hour_ in.

He doesn’t know what to think, doesn’t have all the facts to even _know_ what to think. But such a turn of events is so unexpected, so impolite and discourteous, he can’t help but wonder what angered Seungcheol enough to possess him to dismiss his own guests.

He ruminates on it for most of the day, then as the afternoon lesson draws to a close and Jihoon follows Hansol out of the library, the Butler calls out to him from where he is descending the staircase behind a cluster of maids.

"Ah, Mr Lee—His Grace wishes to speak with you. He’s waiting in his study.”

He doesn’t wait for a response—not that Jihoon is in any position to refuse the request—simply strides off in the opposite direction, confident that Jihoon will follow through.

Wringing his hands together anxiously, Jihoon resists the urge to postpone the inevitable and makes his way towards the room in question. It occurs to him that Seungcheol’s study is best suited for private conversations, though the thought does not make the prospect of the coming interview easier to bear.

He stops outside the door a moment, steeling himself, then quietly knocks and steps inside.

Seungcheol is standing by the window, a forbidding figure garbed all in black; the harsh non-colour makes his honeyed skin all the warmer.

Jihoon waits by the door, as uncertain as he’s ever been, until Seungcheol turns around to look at him.

“Close the door,” he says after a moment, in that dark undertone that bodes ill for Jihoon’s control.

Jihoon’s blood pulses faster, but he obeys.

He needs only turn around to take hold of the latch and shove the door firmly shut. It's not fear that sets his heart beating so quickly—he has never been afraid of Seungcheol and he is not about to start. It's a hundred more complicated emotions, a tangle of things he is not allowed to want.

It shouldn't matter that the door is closed—what difference does it make—but there is the kick of adrenaline anyway. The familiar, irrational burst of anticipation that always accompanies finding himself alone with the Alpha.

It does not help that this time feels different. This time Seungcheol is watching him more closely, and Jihoon doesn't know what to make of the scrutiny.

With the door shut, he steps out into the room, gaze cast toward the floor, deferential but also conveniently avoiding eye contact. He can still feel Seungcheol staring, and it takes every ounce of self-restraint not to fidget. By the time he stands before Seungcheol, however, his composure has all but vanished.

Perhaps that had been Seungcheol’s intention from the start?

Seungcheol keeps his peace however, assuming the demeanour of a statue, distant and uncompromising. He stares at Jihoon for a while, denting Jihoon’s composure even further, before finally speaking.

“Where did you disappear to yesterday?"

Jihoon presses his lips together and takes a calming breath, "I ventured into town. To meet with old friend of mine who was passing through.”

"A dear old friend, with a hundred and one stories to share I bet," Seungcheol adds decisively even though Jihoon has no idea what he means by that. Then, whether recognizing the incomprehension on his face or simply concluding the thought, he adds, “You were absent for most of the day, Jihoon. I almost formed a search party to seek you out when you failed to appear at the dance.”

Jihoon can only shake his head helplessly. "But I—I took care to inform Mr Jeon of my plans yesterday morning. He had no objection—”

“Well had you taken care to inform _me_ of your plans, I would have informed you otherwise. Your absence _was_ noted Jihoon. I expected you to attend the dance last night, I expected you to be with..…I expected you _there_.” Seungcheol bites out, and Jihoon suddenly realises that Seungcheol isn’t calm at all; he is holding on to his temper with the barest of margins.

Jihoon's confounded senses spin. He had come here expecting—he knows not what, but it wasn’t this rigidly controlled ire.

“I was not aware of this expectation your Grace. Had I known my assistance would be required, I would have attended."

A glow of determination and hellfire sparks in Seungcheol's eyes.

Now it’s he who shakes his head, though not helplessly, just distant and disappointed, untouchable.

“I did not _require_ your _assistance_. Why must you _word_ it in such a way? Why must you make things so difficult between us?” He hisses, his voice traipsing into a dangerous register.

“Uh—but—” Jihoon sputters, his mind spinning like a compass needle in a thousand directions at once. “That’s, that is not my intention.”

“Is it not?” Seungcheol's voice rises with confused frustration. “You could have fooled me with your recent behaviour. It’s as if you’ve forgotten who I _am_ , all of a sudden.”

Taken aback, it takes Jihoon a moment to respond. 

“I know exactly who you are. I haven’t forgotten that for a moment. How could I.”

Seungcheol’s expression measurably gentles and he takes a step toward him, though the approach leaves hardly any space separating them. When he continues, his voice is unexpectedly soft, “Who am I then? Who am I to _you_?”

Jihoon's mouth has gone dry, and he barely manages to answer. “You are his Grace, his Lordship—my, my employer.”

The laugh that escapes Seungcheol is raspy and rough, verging on hysteria. “Is that all I am to you?”

“What else could you possibly be?” Jihoon says, trying to keep his eyes from stinging.

For a split second he imagines he sees Seungcheol wince, but just as quickly the expression is gone, replaced by a carefully indifferent mask.

"If that is how you wish for things to be," says Seungcheol, his voice low and tight with anger, his eyes flashing with fury, “So be it.”

He turns and stalks across the room, away from Jihoon, who is left alone once more. Confused, mortified, quieted.

It had been worth it though. The memory of Seungcheol, leaning in close, furious, is like a fire in Jihoon's chest. It burns him from the inside out, and just when he dares hope to believe the warmth will linger, the cold seeps in quickly enough.

* * *

The week that follows is easily the most uncomfortable of Jihoon’s entire life.

Seungcheol avoids any sort of one-to-one interaction between them when he can, getting Wonwoo to run interference. Where he would typically accost Jihoon throughout the day to discuss anything and everything that takes his fancy, there is nothing but silence now, with Seungcheol flickering in and out of the house like a ghost.

It is a maddening and unsatisfying dance.

It is absolute hell.

And yet…..Seungcheol doesn’t ask him to leave.

Jihoon can’t understand why Seungcheol tolerates his presence. Perhaps it’s out of guilt, some narcissistic necessity, or perhaps it’s because of those scant minutes he'd spent having ownership over Jihoon—and because of what had followed directly after. Some lingering sense of responsibility, however tainted, keeps him from sending Jihoon away.

Sometimes Jihoon wishes he would.

It would be easier if Seungcheol would just demand he leave, have Wonwoo pay him his little salary and give him his reference and send him on his way. Anything would be better than being treated like a spectre.

“Are you and Seungcheol fighting?” Finally comes the question Jihoon has been dreading for some time.

It’s not surprising that Hansol would pick up on the shift in their relationship. The past two weeks have been terse between the two of them. Of course, Hansol would notice the disharmony. _Everyone_ has noticed.

But Jihoon has anticipated such a question, so he doesn’t have to think twice about answering.

“No, Hansol, we’re not fighting.”

Hansol blinks at him, startled confusion flashing in his eyes before something more stubborn brightens there. “Then why is he so sad?”

“I’m sure he isn’t sad at all. I’m sure he’s just tired,” Jihoon returns, his voice admirably even as he doubts his own claims.

He hasn’t seen enough of the Duke to know for certain, but when he _has_ caught sight of him, there is something heavy about Seungcheol’s silence. Something more to the quiet reticence he carries around him like a shield. Jihoon doesn't know what to make of it, and he wonders if he erred somehow. Perhaps he _has_ wronged Seungcheol—or wounded him in some way he cannot perceive—and the idea sticks like a hot coal behind his ribs. Tense and aching and guilty.

He ignores the weight of Hansol's stare to return to his book, flipping through it.

“Yes, he is.” Hansol’s tone takes on a more exasperated edge, “He’s sad that you don’t want to be his friend anymore.”

That brings Jihoon's head up, brings heat mounting to his cheeks and horror and guilt churning into his stomach. “What makes you say that? Did he tell you this?”

Hansol’s brow furrows. “He didn’t have to. He’s my brother, I know when he is sad.” He gives Jihoon a quieter, sadder look and says, “You’re the only friend he had. His only _real_ friend.”

Jihoon feels an incredulous laugh threaten in his chest, and he quashes it back down. He can't explain to Hansol why those words are comical. Hansol is too young to understand why they could never be _real_ friends or anything more for that matter, and Jihoon does not trust his voice to remain steady if he speaks such a truth aloud.

The last thing he wants to do is tarnish Seungcheol’s good image in his brother’s eyes.

* * *

Eventually though, it’s Jihoon’s own body that forces his hand.

His sleep has grown progressively restless since his altercation with Seungcheol, but the _why_ finally dawns on him when he wakes in the middle of the night, overheated and breathless and damp with sweat. And not just sweat, but copious amounts of slick that soil the sheets and smear a mess between his thighs.

He’s going into heat. His _first_ heat.

And all for a man who doesn’t even want him.

Jihoon sobs quietly as he gathers the bedsheets quickly, piles them in the corner to be laundered at first light. He now accepts he cannot stay here a day longer, refuses to let his sad little heart and his pathetic body dictate his desires.

He spends what is left of the night arranging his belongings, then sets out at first light to book passage on the first carriage headed north. It’s not scheduled to leave until sunset, so he has time to purchase a heat quelling tincture from a local apothecary, and write a letter for Hansol. The tonic goes a long way in easing his symptoms, though he still feels unbearably hot, desperate to claw out of his clothes. The letter on the other hand, is a much more delicate matter.

Jihoon can’t bring himself to deliver it in person, so he leaves it on Wonwoo’s desk instead, hoping Wonwoo will develop _some_ measure of kindness when he relays the news, only to walk right into the man as he exits his study.

“Are you…leaving?” Wonwoo asks, eyeing Jihoon’s small trunk waiting at the bottom of the staircase.

“Yes,” Jihoon says around an uncomfortable swallow, “A change in circumstances require me to return home without delay. I appreciate that I am cutting our arrangement short unexpectedly, but I will forfeit this month’s wages, and I will not request a reference for the inconvenience I have caused.”

Bald confusion flashes in Wonwoo’s eyes, and he holds himself at a careful distance. Gauging and uncertain. Peering at him with a worried sort of scepticism that will be difficult to coax down.

“You will of course receive full pay for your services _and_ a reference Mr Lee. But I would like to know _why_ you are departing so hastily.”

Jihoon breathes out through his nose, slowly, hoping he can project total sincerity into every word. “It—it’s my _aunt_.” He begins, forcing himself to keep meeting Wonwoo’s piercing attention. “I received word she is unwell, and I must return home at once to tend to her. It’s—it’s all in my letter, if you have time to read it.”

Wonwoo doesn’t seem at all convinced by his paltry excuses. He is still watching him. Quiet. Curious. Concerned. But he reaches out to shake his hand, curling his fingers tightly over Jihoon’s.

“Well, I am sorry that you are leaving us so soon. You know… he ..he will be devastated to hear of your departure.”

Jihoon manages a small smile.

He _does_ know. That is precisely why he suspects that the awful disloyalty of leaving Hansol without a proper goodbye might never shake loose from his stomach. But it’s too difficult to explain to someone so young why he _must_.

Feeling makes his words sound tight and a little bit self-deprecating when he admits, “Hansol is a sweet boy, and will miss him dearly. And I hope to make his acquaintance again in the future.”

Wonwoo shakes his head unexpectedly, then with more warmth than is customary for him, he reaches out to clap Jihoon on the shoulder, “I do not speak of Hansol.”

Jihoon swallows the first and second and third things he wants to say—what is there to say, that hasn’t already been said?

“I really must go, I can’t miss my carriage.” He murmurs, stepping away, uncomfortable with this turn in the conversation and keen to escape the sound of excited footsteps he can hear bounding down the stairs.

* * *

Jihoon returns home to the small little town by the shore, because he has nowhere else to be, and nowhere else he _wants_ to be. He tries not to think about the sickly, hollow places in his chest, which only ever feel whole when Seungcheol is near, and instead sets out to build himself a new life.

He rents himself a small cottage on the outskirts of town, a small hideaway that should ensure him some semblance of peace and privacy.

It is perhaps a sad comedown from the majesty of Daegu Park, this little cottage at the bottom of a hill. With a wall that sinks oddly to one side and uneven rows of thatch on the roof. But it is _his_. A place to call his own where he is servant to no man.

The day he takes residence, the Landlord looks a bit askance at the whole situation, repeatedly asking if it’s _wise_ for an Omega to be living alone so far away from everyone else. It is, Jihoon thinks, likely to be the first of many choices he will be making and keeping to that will earn him odd looks in town, but he means to live a little differently if he can get away with it.

* * *

On the surface of it, not much has changed in the four months he’s been away; the rumour mill is still rife in town, and his existence is as wretched as it ever had been, only now the days are shorter and much, much colder.

It continues as such for a week, until the morning an express messenger arrives on his doorstep.

Jihoon isn’t expecting correspondence, hasn’t even had time to write to his aunt and inform her of his return, so he’s certain the messenger has simply lost his way. Except when the man withdraws a letter from his overcoat, sealed with the Choi coat of arms, Jihoon knows it’s no mistake.

His heartbeat speeds up even as his stomach sinks, a strange, somersault sensation to accompany the confusion in his head: who would have written to him from Daegu Park? An express messenger would entail a hefty fee, and there’s only a handful of people residing there who could cover the cost.

What could possibly require such urgency?

 _Only one way to find out_ , he thinks, cracking the wax seal.

The [letter](https://wtfkovah.tumblr.com/post/618754610132336640/regency-letter-2-3-dear-mr-lee-this-apology-i) crackles and wrinkles where Jihoon’s fingers clutch at it desperately. 

_Oh, Wonwoo, you foolish,_ foolish _man,_ he thinks weakly, closing his eyes. The ice that slicks beneath his skin has nothing to do with the gusty weather outside, and everything to do with the disbelief surging inside him. The distress at knowing it was _never_ Seungcheol.

Seungcheol never wrote that note. He never pushed him away. He never put up walls and miles between them. Seungcheol never asked him to leave. He never wanted Jihoon to leave. He wanted him to stay.

He _wanted_ him….

There is a rushing vibration between Jihoon’s ears, a hiss like a kettle on a hot stove. He hurts all over and his stomach feels as if he might be sick on the ground.

He sits by the window in a stupor for a while, staring out at the fields beyond, indulging the sweet ache of what might have been. But only for a moment. Then he attempts to distract himself by any means; dressing for the day, preparing breakfast, reading a little. But the contents of the letter continue to roll over in his mind until he can’t sit still anymore, and dons his coat to take a walk.

He’d been intending to head into town to fetch some supplies anyway, and a brisk walk along the cliffside seems like the perfect way to clear his head.

At least it usually _would_ have that effect.

It probably would have worked excellently had he not come across Sehun, travelling the opposite direction on horseback. 

“Jihoon!” He calls out, bringing his horse to a stop, “I was hoping to pass you. I had learned from the school master that you had returned to town, but you have not been an easy man to catch. How have you been old friend?”

Jihoon resists the urge to snort loudly. Sehun and him are many things to each other, but old friends they are _not_.

“I have been well, thank you. And you?” Jihoon offers demurely.

He is careful _not_ to mention Sehun’s engagement, having heard upon his return that it had ended when both parties could not agree on a dowry. Apparently Sehun’s finances are not as impressive as he led everyone to believe, and Jihoon could gloat on their reversal of fortunes, _if_ he was the petty sort.

“I must admit it has been a rather dull summer season this year.” Sehun laughs weakly. “I had hoped to accompany my father in the city with his new ventures, but a bout of ill health kept me from venturing too far afield. I only regained my joy for riding a month ago in fact, and when I attempted to call upon you at your lodgings, the landlord informed me that you had left at the beginning of the season. He couldn’t recall where you had gone, but I had hoped it would only be short-lived engagement. I am glad to see that it was. You—you have been missed.”

“Have I? Hmm.” Jihoon offers a wan smile as he continues walking.

He is fairly certain he has successfully indicated his utter disinterest in continuing their conversation, but he gets no further than three steps, before Sehun is dismounting and falling into step beside him.

“So, where have you been, may I ask?” He asks politely.

Jihoon prays for patience; he wants to take Sehun’s politeness and crack it between his fingers like an egg with its yolk. He's in no mood for pleasant chit-chat at the moment, or for any company at all. He thinks of turning around and heading straight back to his cottage, but the wind on his face makes him think of the South fields that surround Daegu Park, and of Clip-Clop’s steady, clipping gait against the hard-packed earth.

“ _South_.” He answers at length.

Sehun studies him carefully, lips pursed, “And..uhm…what took you South?”

“Work.” Jihoon sighs quietly, resigned to having this conversation. “With the school closed I needed gainful employment, so I accepted a temporary position as a governess for the younger brother of the Choi Family in their summer estate.”

Sehun's eyes brighten with pointed interest. “Ah, the _Duke_. I hear his family is one of the wealthiest on the continent; you must have been paid a _handsome_ rate to be entrusted with educating one of them.”

“I was paid well enough.” Jihoon says curtly.

Stopping at a crossroads, he looks this way and that, then opts to take a sharp left up a grassy hill. The ground is soft with recent rain and his boots sink more than he bargained for, but at least this way Sehun won’t be able to follow him on foot unless he ties up his steed.

Which…he _does_. Bugger.

Jihoon stares long sufferingly at the sky as the Beta quickly secures his horse to a nearby fence and rushes to follow.

“I never had the privilege of meeting the Duke myself of course, but my older brother was fortunate enough to ride alongside him during a hunting party a few seasons back,” He tells Jihoon as he catches up with him, severely out of breath. “It was before he inherited the title from his father, so he wasn’t a Duke back then,” More panting. “But he spoke highly of him, though I suppose _most_ people would speak highly of such esteemed company, regardless of whatever failings they may have.”

“He is _deserving_ of high praise,” Jihoon is quick to add, not wishing to cast any doubt on Seungcheol's good character. “He is a very kind and honourable man.”

Sehun makes an inquisitive noise in the back of his throat. “So you—you _met_ him?”

“Yes, I—I met him.” Jihoon says, and then falls quiet.

He doesn't want to give Sehun more information, much as he wishes to expound on his experiences in Daegu Park and the Duke’s unparalleled generosity. His relationship with Seungcheol is so utterly private. So personal. So improbable that he doubts he could explain to an outsider if he tried.

“Is he as handsome as everyone says?” Sehun asks curiously, and Jihoon fumbles to a stop.

All at once, the circumstances of the past two weeks seem to catch up with him, and he feels utterly drained. He’s tired—of Sehun, this conversation, this whole damn nosy town he’s forced to live in—so far away and out of reach from everything and everyone he holds dear.

“Sehun,” He grits his teeth, turning to face the Beta, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I would _really_ appreciate it if you could just lea—”

“Do you recognise that rider on the hill?” Sehun interrupts, staring out at the distance, a hand shielding his eyes from the afternoon sun, “He’s a new face by my account.”

Jihoon whips his head around to stare out across the fields, following Sehun’s gaze to where a dark horse and its rider are coming down the hill towards them at a stately pace.

At first, he can’t make out any discerning details, but as the horse draws nearer, and the rider’s features become distinguishable, Jihoon's breath lodges in his throat. 

_Seungcheol_.

The sight of him arriving on horseback makes Jihoon’s stomach swoop, makes his head fill with noise. Ridiculous, the way heat suffuses his cheeks just because Seungcheol is near. Because he has come to…

Well….

Jihoon’s not sure _why_ he has come at all, but the jolt of relief that shoots through him is the nicest feeling he’s had in weeks, and can’t help but stare up at the Alpha as he draws his horse to a stop a few feet away.

“Seungcheol—you’re….you came.”

Seungcheol gives him a strange, loaded look.

“Of course, _I came_.” Exasperation colours the words, but Seungcheol doesn't look angry. He looks a little windswept and a little muddy, a little more dishevelled than he usually keeps himself—but more than anything he looks _relieved_ as he dismounts his horse and strides forward, “I came to take you home.”

Jihoon’s blinks. Hears his own voice belatedly answer, “But…I only got Mr Jeon’s letter this morning. How did you—”

 _Arrive so quickly_ —he means to say, but as Seungcheol comes closer, Jihoon can see that he’s the picture of exhaustion. His face is drawn and pale, dark circles under his eyes marking days without proper sleep. Frantically, Jihoon presses his hand to Seungcheol cheek, gut lurching with how cool his skin feels, at the shine of icy sweat on the flat of his palm.

“Foolish man,” He breathes, brow furrowing faintly, “Have you journeyed this whole way without stopping for rest?”

Seungcheol doesn't seem offended by Jihoon’s chastisement. If anything, his expression softens into something that might almost be affection.

“Mr Jeon wrote to me two days ago, telling me where you were, what he did. Snivelling little bastard didn’t even have the courage to wait for my reaction, he disappeared into the night before I could strangle him to death. I didn’t want to waste time writing, I—I was desperate to see you again.”

He makes a small, abortive movement. As though he wants to touch Jihoon but can’t. Only then does Jihoon remember they are not alone, Sehun is still standing off to the side, dividing a curious look between them.

The polite thing to do would be to lead the introductions, but Jihoon knows full well that Sehun is a nosy sod that will not give them a moment’s peace once he realises who Seungcheol is, and Seungcheol is already growling in that low, inhuman register that says he’s five seconds away from mauling Sehun’s face off. So, _no_ —an introduction is definitely off the table.

Instead, Jihoon takes hold of Clip-Clop’s reigns in one hand, and Seungcheol’s hand in the other and begins leading them back down the hill.

“Come.” He coaxes a growling Seungcheol away, feeling tired and tender. “My cottage is not far from here. You can rest there.”

* * *

When they finally reach the cottage, Jihoon's emotions are so potent his hands start to shake.

Maybe it's ridiculous to be overwhelmed by events that are in no way a surprise, but he's waited so long to get Seungcheol alone. To speak in private, just for a start, and then to throw himself into the man’s arms and finish what they started so damn many weeks ago.

He is hungry for Seungcheol. So starved for his touch he can barely tolerate the polite distance Seungcheol maintains as he invites him inside.

Even as he seats himself, Seungcheol remains standing across the room, one hand outstretched over the mantle of the lit fireplace. It’s an obvious pose, but its studied casualness has an edge of tension running through it.

Jihoon remains silent as long as he can, allowing Seungcheol the time to marshal his thoughts. Then can’t stop himself from blurting out:

“Won’t you sit down at least? You must be tired.”

Seungcheol does not move from his position next to the mantle, but he straightens subtly, as though all his clothes have just been re-starched.

“Jihoon—I owe you an apology.” He sounds small and terrified, nothing at all like his usual air of control.

Jihoon is urged out of his seat by that tone alone, crossing the room to close the distance between them. He puts the tips of his fingers softly against Seungcheol’s jaw. His cheeks are hot, stained with regret, “I read Wonwoo’s letter, it explained everything. What could you possibly have done to apologize for?”

Seungcheol finally meets his gaze, determination and despair writ large upon his face.

“That night, in my study—I behaved improperly.”

The proclamation lodges like ice in Jihoon's chest, and he blurts a plaintive, “Seungcheol—"

“—I shouldn’t have taken such liberties with you.” Seungcheol presses, not even pausing to acknowledge the interjection.

“O-oh.” Jihoon quickly retracts his hand, stomach sinking, though Seungcheol catches it before he can step away.

“Don’t misunderstand me,” He waves a hand, momentarily lost for words. “I didn’t come here to apologise and ask for things to go back the way they were. I don’t want you to return with me as Hansol’s governess, that’s not what I want at all. But neither of us can dismiss the fact that I took advantage of you.”

Jihoon shakes his head hard. “No, you didn’t.”

“Yes, I _did_.” Seungcheol says, voice dull, hard, unbending as iron. “I have a habit of becoming a proper fool when in the sight of something I want very badly, and I had _never_ wanted anything as much as I wanted you in that moment. But I should not have trespassed the bounds of etiquette, I should not have scented you or released my scent, and I certainly should not have touched you the way I did. I should have approached you civilly, in a manner that you deserve, and I realised it all seconds before I—"

Seungcheol's voice cracks, overwhelmed with emotion, and Jihoon's heart lurches painfully at the sound. The raw ache of confession.

“If I behaved coolly towards you after, it was only because I was ashamed of myself. I had almost forced myself on you, and I felt the need to give you space to decide what _you_ wanted. If you indeed _wanted_ anything from me.”

Jihoon forces himself to draw air into his lungs and steady himself. He won't win this argument if he flies into a fit of passion. Despite the heat that has been re-ignited by Seungcheol’s arrival, he needs to be reasoned. Calm. In control of himself and his faculties.

He closes his eyes for just a moment, and when he opens them again, he is relieved to see that Seungcheol appears to be _listening_. There’s a worried expression on his face—sombre—but also unmistakably like he is _pleading_ with Jihoon for forgiveness.

“There was no coercion on your part, Seungcheol, so you needn’t apologise.” Jihoon says, soft and measured. “I was very consenting that night in your study. Surprised, I dare say, that you were expressing any interest in me at all, and also a little mortified that I had become so comfortable in your presence that I released my scent unknowingly. But nevertheless, I _was_ consenting. I am _still_ consenting. I—I want you.” He says, chest aching with earnestness he is desperate for Seungcheol to see.

“Jihoon—” Seungcheol breathes quietly, and suddenly Jihoon feels like his heart is breaking—but not with sadness; it is bursting forth with life, light, hope, every bright, shining emotion centred on the way the tentative look in Seungcheol’s eyes transforms to pure joy.

When Seungcheol eases forward, Jihoon meets his eyes as steadily as he can. There are still questions in Seungcheol's face, but only one question that matters, and Jihoon holds his breath as Seungcheol reaches up and pulls a delicate gold chain from round his neck, his mother’s ring hanging from it. Releasing it from the chain he steps closer, and Jihoon’s heart misses a beat, then two as Seungcheol takes his hand and with all the care in the world, slides the gold ring onto his finger.

It’s a perfect fit, and Jihoon releases a shaky breath as Seungcheol brings a careful hand to his face, tracing the cheekbone with his thumb.

“I want to do this properly, Jihoon. I want to meet your family and ask for their acceptance, and I want to court you. Six months at least, then, if you agree—we can mate.” He says in a hushed voice, holding Jihoon’s hand in his like a delicate soft-boiled egg.

It’s a reasonable strategy by all accounts. There's genuine wisdom in it, especially if they are to preserve the bounds of etiquette and keep Jihoon’s dignity intact. But Jihoon will have to consider all these things later; at the moment he _does not care._

Less rational instincts are guiding him now. Instincts that Seungcheol’s proximity brought into motion long ago, and instincts that will not dissipate until they are sated. He doesn’t care if people gasp or stare or disapprove—Jihoon’s soul burns with the need to be claimed, greedy for Seungcheol's heat, for his strong body to blanket his own.

“That is very noble of you Seungcheol.” He says, sliding his hand out of Seungcheol grip and reaching for his cravat, loosening it, “But I fear you will have to be _less_ noble.”

“Uh…W-what?” Seungcheol’s blinks at him as though struggling to believe his words.

Jihoon doesn’t stop to explain himself, simply closes the distance himself, putting his hands on Seungcheol’s shoulders and silencing him with a kiss, insistent and sweet, his fingers inching up to brush the stubble along the line of Seungcheol’s jaw.

Even frozen with surprise, Seungcheol's mouth is every bit as soft as Jihoon remembers, and when Jihoon's tongue slips tentatively forward, Seungcheol's lips part for him, stillness melting away.

A moment later, he feels Seungcheol return the embrace, sliding his hands over Jihoon’s shoulders, tentative at first and then bolder as the kiss deepens, until Seungcheol’s grasping at his hips, pulling him impossibly closer.

Toeing off his boots, Jihoon breaks the kiss to begin work on his breeches, unlacing them until he can push them cleanly off. Seungcheol however, doesn’t seem to be getting the message, staring in stunned silence as he is.

“Well don’t just stand there— _undress_.” Jihoon says, swallowing around his desperation. He is well aware that Seungcheol is more than capable of undressing himself—since he seems _relish_ walking around bare-chested at every opportunity.

“B-but ..but…but the courtship?” Seungcheol stammers.

He’s so confused, and adorable, and simply the sweetest Alpha in existence; Jihoon is going to ride him through the mattress till his thighs ache.

“Will have to be a speedy one.” Jihoon counters quickly, pulling his shirt tails up shamelessly so Seungcheol can look his fill, “As you can see, I’m not exactly in a position to be patient.”

Seungcheol's eyes—already huge—widen even further as he sights Jihoon’s obvious arousal, the trail of slick smearing a mess between his thighs. His face reddens with heat and his mouth forms a soft, soundless, _oh_.

“You’re…you’re in _heat_.”

Jihoon breathes out a shaky sigh and nods, letting his shirt tails fall again. “Yes, it began the day before I left. I _have_ been trying to quell the worst of it with tonic, but I can’t hope to control it now with you here, smelling like _that_.”

Seungcheol doesn’t bat an eye. Instead he continues to stare at him, wildfire in his eyes, and says softly, “Because of me?”

“Of course, Seungcheol.” Jihoon admits past the erratic staccato of his own heartbeat. “Who else could possibly inspire such a reaction?”

Seungcheol is still watching him heavily, but he doesn't protest when Jihoon reaches out, begins to fumble frantically at his cravat, the buttons on his jacket, opening his shirt with swift, efficient motions.

A gentle hand around one wrist stops him from opening the placket of Seungcheol’s breeches, and Jihoon quickly curls his free hand around Seungcheol nape, tugging him closer again, letting the Alpha see the truth of what he is about to confess in his eyes.

“I am touched, truly, that you are willing to court me first. But you must know by now it’s not necessary; I am freely and wholly yours Seungcheol, and that will not change in six months. Besides,” He stretches up to nip at Seungcheol’s earlobe, catching it between teasing teeth and then licking the sting away before purring, “I thought you preferred the more _traditional_ methods of securing your mate.”

It has the desired effect. He can see heat flaring in Seungcheol’s dark eyes, can see his pupils dilating with want, so that only a thin circle of the iris remains.

Drawing back reluctantly, his cheeks burning pink, Jihoon lifts the shirt over his head and lets it fall to the ground. His hair tie comes off next, and he threads his fingers through the braid until his hair falls loosely around his shoulders.

A moment later and he finds himself standing completely naked before Seungcheol, peering up at him, and it takes unimaginable willpower to _not_ shy away.

They regard each other in silence for several seconds.

Seungcheol makes no secret of his eyes as they look over Jihoon’s body, a body that he has already possessed, so to speak, and the look in his eyes hot and hopeful and blatantly wanting. Jihoon’s stomach squirms under the rapt attention, but he does not let his eager expression falter. He looks Seungcheol up and down in turn, pretending as if he knows what he is doing.

In truth, he has no earthly _idea_ what he is doing—but his whole body is lit up from the inside out, and he knows only Seungcheol’s touch will remedy that.

“Shall I get on the bed? Or do you want to take me against the wall? Or perhaps the floor?”

“That is….this all highly improper.” Seungcheol huffs, though Jihoon notes with some amusement that he has already tossed his cravat aside, kicked of his boots and is now making quick work of his shirt.

There's no telling who moves first.

The second Seungcheol’s shirt hits the floor, they come together in unpracticed unison, a wildfire of need.

Jihoon buries both hands in Seungcheol's hair, tilting his head farther down as he surges against him, staking claim of his lush mouth. Kissing him like a man _starved_.

There's something nearly sweet in the way Seungcheol kisses him back, the happy sigh he breathes around the rough thrust of Jihoon's tongue. As aroused as he is, he’s gentle too—trailing big, reassuring hands over Jihoon’s shoulders, his chest, his stomach, before curving their way around his body and squeezing his backside tightly, pressing Jihoon into him all the more.

Somewhere in the back of Jihoon’s brain he’s aware that Seungcheol is trying his best to go slow, to kiss Jihoon like he’s something precious, like he’s something wonderful and rare and delicate that Seungcheol has to be careful with. But it’s _excruciating_ , because all Jihoon wants is _more_ , and when he makes a frustrated, guttural noise, Seungcheol finally takes pity on him and carries him to the bed.

Jihoon squirms and arches and tries to convey his desire to melt into Seungcheol’s lap, but when Seungcheol lays him gently on the sheets, he pulls back and just _looks_ at him, eyes raking in every inch of Jihoon’s lanky frame.

“You’re perfect Jihoon—the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.”

Which is a very fine compliment indeed, if Jihoon was currently in the mood for flattery. But seeing that he is literally _dying_ from the need to be mated, the distance between them is abruptly so unacceptable that he actually whines a little.

Seungcheol’s eyes snap to his face, the look of dawning lust in his eyes instantly replaced by concern and alarm.

“Of course,” he says hoarsely, “I’m sorry.”

Dazed, Jihoon feels faintly confused about what Seungcheol should be sorry for, but then Seungcheol reaches down and strips his breeches off with brisk efficiency, and the reveal of his cock, jutting out, firm and already glistening, pushes everything else from his rapidly narrowing field of awareness.

It’s beautiful and hard and full and hefty, already flaring thickly at the base, and now that Jihoon can look his fill without shame, he is not sure he can _stop_ looking.

Seungcheol is _big_ —so much bigger than he imagined, and Jihoon's more than a little intimidated at the prospect of fitting all of that inside him. But he craves it all the same—this is the thing he’s going mad for, the thing he _needs_ inside of him. He stares at it, mesmerized, so fixated he doesn’t realise he’s reached out to curl his fingers around the length, until he feels it twitch in his hand and hears Seungcheol moan above him.

“Christ— _Jihoon_ ,” Seungcheol swallows and shuts his eyes, and then leans in to kiss him again.

Jihoon’s shivering so uncontrollably now that it takes him a long moment to process that Seungcheol’s trembling too, now almost as badly as he is. Something in him reaches for the threads of his coherence in order to say something reassuring, but he’s too far gone; words are beyond him.

He kisses back, instead, open and earnest and eager, stripping his defences away until only the raw, yearning core of him remains.

Wrapping his arms around Seungcheol’s neck, he breathes in the strong, masculine, arousing, unforgettable smell of him, nuzzles his jawline and his throat, then finally goes pliant and passive against him, willing Seungcheol to understand.

And finally, _finally_ , after a moment of frozen non-reaction, Seungcheol must comprehend at last, because he growls knowingly, lowers his head, then sinks his teeth into Jihoon’s neck.

The sharp pain nearly jolts Jihoon off the mattress, but the pleasure that follows is overwhelming, and even though he’s barely been touched, he comes immediately, spilling over his chest and pooling between his thighs.

A ragged helplessness steals over him then, setting his pulse frantic in his chest even as his body goes limp with abrupt fatigue. He has been claimed—Seungcheol has claimed him; so many things he's wanted without any reasonable hope—a perilous collection of fantasies and impossibilities—and yet here he is. Falling willingly apart beneath his mate’s touch.

Seungcheol stops sucking the bite on Jihoon’s neck, pulling his head back to study his efforts. Jihoon registers a moment of surprise on his face, which lasts until Jihoon’s orgasm subsides and his erection... doesn’t.

“Oh.”

Jihoon musters enough cogency to wonder what other kinds of unexpected things his body will do now, but Seungcheol just grips his hips and presses kisses over his chest and shoulders and lips, half-murmuring worshipful endearments against his skin.

A moment later he reaches for unlit lamp on the bedside, dipping his fingers in the oil he finds there. He keeps kissing Jihoon, lingering and sweet, as he coats his fingers generously, licks the come from Jihoon’s chest and thighs, gentling him even as the fire inside Jihoon flares up again and he whines piteously, trying in vain to get relief from his ineffectual attempts to frot against Seungcheol’s thigh.

“I know, I know,” Seungcheol soothes him, “No more waiting, I promise.”

Resting on his knees, he tilts Jihoon’s hips up and slings Jihoon’s left leg over his broad shoulder, and Jihoon’s whole body contracts with anticipation even before Seungcheol slides his thick fingers inside of him.

It’s the first flash of real relief Jihoon’s felt since his heat began, and it’s immediately not enough. Seungcheol seems to sense this too, because he sucks in a shocked breath — a hiss with an edge of arousal—in awe at how _wet_ Jihoon is for him. His eyes darken again as he assesses Jihoon’s ragged breaths, the way his whole body is already contracting around his fingers.

The energy in the air between them shifts.

“Look at you,” Seungcheol murmurs, staring at Jihoon. “Who knew this is how things would end between us,” He drags his fingers slowly in and out of Jihoon, smile flickering across his face when Jihoon fists the bedsheets and shudders. “Well, _actually_ ,” he adds. “I knew.” He presses a kiss against Jihoon’s inner thigh, where his touch is scalding and ice-cold all at once.

Jihoon gasps, and Seungcheol, merciless, leans down to murmur the rest against Jihoon’s lips.

“I knew, Jihoon, I _knew_ from the first moment I laid eyes on you that you would be mine,” he says.

Jihoon gasps Seungcheol’s name, helplessly, arching up for him, trying in vain to impale himself on Seungcheol’s fingers. He’s vaguely aware that he’s letting out a string of pleading, mewling sounds, that he can’t seem to stop. But as humiliating as they are, there is clearly serve some instinctual purpose; the look on Seungcheol’s face grows hungrier, darker, like Jihoon’s helpless cries of need are going straight to his cock. He adds another finger and leans close.

“I dreamt about you every night, every moment we were together. Couldn’t wait to make you mine,” he mutters, and Jihoon _whimpers_.

His voice is molten and territorial, a tone Jihoon’s never heard in him before, and Jihoon has no room for argument left in his brain even if he wanted to argue. He never wants to argue with Seungcheol again, he wants to belong, he wants to be taken and fucked and ravished and used and possessed, and _please_ , he thinks, _take me-take me-take me,_ and in response to the unrestrained noises Jihoon is making, Seungcheol removes his fingers and suddenly slides inside him with one protracted, smooth movement.

Jihoon’s muscles ripple and pulse around him, flexing to sheath him, one infinite inch at a time. When Seungcheol grips his hips and shifts to guide himself in deeper, Jihoon’s entire world whites out for a moment on the sheer sensory overload of his body taking in Seungcheol’s thick cock.

He comes again, immediately, his cock spasming frictionless against his stomach, and when he comes around to himself, Seungcheol’s face is awed as he watches him.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, wrapping his hand around Jihoon’s pulsing erection, “You’re so— _Jihoon_ , this is—” And even after his orgasm has been wrung out of him, Jihoon’s whole body contorts in response to the sheer _need_ in Seungcheol’s voice.

He’s so far gone himself that he doesn’t really register it happening, the moment when Seungcheol’s possessive instincts overtake him completely. But once he has Seungcheol inside of him, it doesn’t take long.

Seungcheol bottoms out, holding himself almost painfully still for a long moment while he kisses Jihoon, trying to keep from losing control, and Jihoon is so drunk on lust he’s incapable of anything but wrapping his arms and legs around Seungcheol and drawing him in deeper.

The moment Seungcheol moves, starts to fuck him in earnest, he seems to give himself over to the arousal that must have been swimming inside his veins for ages now. His pupils dilate, he grips Jihoon’s hips with a little more roughness, then shakes his head, snarling, “ _Fuck_ , I need—”

In the blink of an eye, he pulls out, flips Jihoon over onto his stomach, then plunges back inside of him, filling Jihoon all at once.

Jihoon yelps and cries out Seungcheol’s name, which seems to be the only word he still remembers. Seungcheol bends low over Jihoon’s back and kisses the side of Jihoon’s neck with none of the gentleness he’s shown up till now; there’s teeth and urgency in his kisses and more power in his movements, more strength in his arms where he’s holding Jihoon in place.

In the midst of all his sudden aggression, Jihoon’s momentarily alarmed by the show of force, until Seungcheol shifts up and nibbles Jihoon’s ear, teasing and demanding and somehow unbearably sweet all at once, and Jihoon lets out a helpless burble of want and affection and lowers his head in submission, clutching the pillow and arching his whole body up for Seungcheol to take.

And Seungcheol does; when he returns to fucking Jihoon now, it’s rough and fast and forceful. He grips the back of Jihoon's neck and keeps him in place, no longer concerned that his little omega might break under his ministrations. Instead, Jihoon greets him enthusiastically, encouraging with every moan and yowl. 

For a few minutes there’s nothing but heat and movement and the slick sharp sounds of Jihoon’s body releasing and then opening for Seungcheol’s cock, over and over and over, followed by Jihoon’s soft panged moans and the low grunts of animal pleasure escaping Seungcheol with every thrust.

Jihoon is no longer cognizant of anything except the overriding primal command in his brain to let Seungcheol inside, deep, _deeper_ —so it takes him a moment to realize something is happening and regroup accordingly when Seungcheol finally finds the limits of Jihoon’s body and plants himself there, when the base of his cock begins to slowly flare and stretch the sensitive ring of Jihoon’s rim.

Instinctively, Jihoon has a flare-up of panic.

His body clenches a little painfully and he mewls, tries to shift away. But Seungcheol is there, in him and around him, his broad hips pinning Jihoon into place amid his sudden surge of fear, and when he nestles against Jihoon’s shoulder, nuzzling his throat and pleading wordlessly for him to stay still, a shot of affection suddenly fills Jihoon, a shot of _home_.

He shivers and relaxes in the same moment, shifting to rub his cheek against Seungcheol’s as he submits, as the Alpha begins to spill hot and wet inside his body.

It’s enough to push him over the edge a third time, coming untouched once more as Seungcheol’s knot swells inside of him, pressing against his prostate and releasing a throbbing, overwhelming stream of pleasure with no end in sight.

It’s the last spike of overwhelming pleasure his body can tolerate, and he keens as his eyes roll back into his head, barely aware of the _‘I love you’_ Seungcheol breathes against his neck.

* * *

It must be only a few minutes before he comes to again, but it feels like hours.

As he slowly regains his awareness, all he’s really conscious of is how utterly _warm_ he feels — not feverish hot like before, but rather totally sheltered in the warm press of Seungcheol all around him and inside of him. The Alpha's scent and his body heat and his arms all enveloping Jihoon like the world’s loveliest blanket.

Seungcheol, in his Alpha wisdom, has thought ahead and opted not to crush him beneath his frame. Instead, he has maneuvered them both onto their sides, and is cradling Jihoon tightly, his chin tucked over Jihoon’s head.

When Jihoon stirs, he lets out a soft sound — something too rasped to be a moan and too content to be a groan. Jihoon responds with a low sigh, still beyond words and unable to process much more than the way his body feels; stretched and full and vibrating with pleasure, the press of Seungcheol’s knot as he spends himself inside Jihoon becoming a low background thrum against his muscles.

His erection has finally subsided, at least for now. Though when he catches sight of his swollen, twitching belly, his primitive brain reminds him that he’s being _bred_ , by his _mate_ , and his cock twitches again anyway.

As if reading his thoughts, Seungcheol slides one large hand down over Jihoon’s abdomen and keeps it there, shifting to press his lips to Jihoon’s jawline.

“Are you hurt?”

Jihoon shakes his head quickly, letting out a low, needy whine. Seungcheol chuckles in answer, then reaches down to cup his cock. He slowly caresses it to hardness, all the earlier urgency now replaced by something more patient, almost lazy and exploratory.

“Mine.” he whispers, “My Jihoon,” And the tone of his voice, so soft and still somehow so possessive, breaks through the haze of Jihoon’s awareness and imprints itself on his memory.

 _Yours_ —he thinks, though he still can’t form the brainpower to say. So he settles for squirming closer still, pressing back against Seungcheol and reaching up to touch his face as Seungcheol's knot coaxes yet another climax from him.

They stay that way for what could be minutes or hours, tied together, rafting lazily upon a high tide of hormones and chemicals, until gradually Seungcheol is spent and his knot slowly recedes. When Seungcheol’s cock slips from him, Jihoon finds himself battling an unaccountable feeling of emptiness, a deep pang of discontent at their separation, and it’s this feeling that finally rouses him by degrees into full consciousness.

He turns his head and, well, he can’t help it, he _scowls_ at Seungcheol over his shoulder.

Seungcheol blinks dazedly and smiles at him after a moment, a little uncertainly. “Is—is something wrong?”

Jihoon's entire demeanour softens.

“No, I just….I feel—” He blows out a frustrated breath, blushing as he says, “When can you knot me again?”

Seungcheol’s smile flickers a little brighter, and he laughs. “As soon as you like. But first—” He presses a kiss to Jihoon’s neck and then shifts, leaving Jihoon abruptly cold for a second.

When he returns, though, he’s bearing a warm washcloth, which he proceeds to run gently over Jihoon’s stomach and thighs. Jihoon hums with spoilt pleasure—and when Seungcheol pets across his flank, he shivers and arches and all but purrs, reaching up to run his hand over Seungcheol’s face.

His mate responds by catching his hand, then kissing each one of his fingers in turn. “I love you.”

Jihoon’s heart spurs faster. Crazy that three simple words should rekindle the bonfire in his chest.

“I love you too.”

Seungcheol flashes him a smile, then tossing the washcloth aside, he climbs back into bed behind him.

This bed is not nearly so spacious as Jihoon’s own in Daegu Park, but he is grateful for it when it slots Seungcheol against him so tightly and warmly.

“Tomorrow,” Seungcheol begins, absentmindedly stroking his fingers over Jihoon’s stomach, “We can begin our journey back to Daegu park. We’ll ride out at dawn.”

“Dawn?” Jihoon echoes with a grimace. He shifts to rest a cheek against Seungcheol’s shoulder, settling, and curls his fingers against Seungcheol’s side. “I cannot bear to wake up that early."

Seungcheol is silent for some time, drawing a finger down the path of Jihoon's spine, then drops his head to Jihoon’s shoulder and trails kisses along his collar bone. “Alright then, we’ll ride out at 11 O’clockish! Though I regret to say it doesn’t have _quite_ the same ring to it.”

Jihoon titters and shakes his head, “We will be riding _nowhere_ tomorrow, you have just arrived Seungcheol and are not in a fit state to travel so soon. Tomorrow you will _rest_ the entire day, and _I_ will journey into town and arrange for a carriage to take us to Daegu Park the day _after_. I don’t want you breaking your neck when you fall off your horse from exhaustion.”

For a second he is certain Seungcheol will protest that, but the Alpha merely shrugs, affable.

“As you wish.”

Staring wondrously back at him, Jihoon brings a careful hand to Seungcheol’s face, tracing the cheekbone with his thumb.

“You know Cheollie, for an Alpha, you are surprisingly docile. I’ve always been under the impression that Alpha’s do not accept orders from anyone—that they are _born_ to argue, to resist, and will kick up a fuss about almost everything.”

Seungcheol smiles happily down at him.

“What’s there to kick up a fuss about?” He says, pushing his cheek into Jihoon’s hand, letting the palm caress his face, eyes closed and looking utterly at peace. “I have what I want now, I am completely yours to command.”

Jihoon feels a rush of arousal and affection so potent he has to pounce on his mate.

* * *

Jihoon leans back in his chair and gazes up at the ceiling, painted speckled blue as a robin's egg.

The room is coming together quite nicely he thinks; already filled with the finest furniture and softest linens, and though he had insisted the old décor was perfectly functional, Seungcheol had persuaded him to wipe the canvas clean and start afresh. To fill the space with warmth and joy and love that was perhaps absent during _his_ time in the space.

It certainly feels much cosier now, and with the addition of the white rocking horse Hansol had generously insisted on donating _(I’m far too old for toys, I’m seven!),_ it’s beginning to take the shape Jihoon envisioned when he started the project.

There is still much to be done before their new guest arrives however; they’re still undecided on the mural that should cover the south wall to mark the occasion, and a suitable tailor has yet to be commissioned to create clothing for any eventuality, and then there’s the harrowing business of _names_.

On top of all that, he still has a house to run, a mountain of gifts to unwrap, letters from well-wishers to read and indeed, his own [letters](https://wtfkovah.tumblr.com/post/618754449188454400/regency-letter-4-dearest-aunt-i-had-been-hoping) to write.

**Author's Note:**

> Playlist:  
> [Dario Marianelli-Yes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gYcOYZyHE8M)  
> [Ludovico Einaudi-Experience](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_VONMkKkdf4)  
> [Ludovico Einaudi-Life](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fy2ZF2ks-9E)  
> [Kean Sibelius-violin concerto in d minor op. 47](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FujHJSzATQQ)  
> [Vaughan Williams- Lark ascending ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZR2JlDnT2l8)  
> [Stephen Storace-How mistaken is the lover](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JnEGimfOimQ&list=PLEKV4f6mle0Sn9PGrq5UlneF8OXfOCXS_&index=28)  
> [Stephen Storace - Piano Sonata No. 4 in F major, 1st Movement](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mGznGAshsg0&list=PLEKV4f6mle0Sn9PGrq5UlneF8OXfOCXS_&index=30)  
> [Gabriel Faure-Pavane Op. 50](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mpgyTl8yqbw)  
> [Maurice Ravel-Pavane for Dead Princess](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GKkeDqJBlK8)  
> [Antonín Dvořák-Serenade for strings in E major ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bRrP3ESM6sQ)  
> [Vaughan Williams-Norfolk Rhapsody No.1](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5DeT3DkyXc8)  
> [Vaughan Williams-Five Variants of "Dives and Lazarus"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RQoP9iLwoos)


End file.
